


The Ghosts Of Who I Used To Be

by Brenda



Series: Came Back Haunted [2]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Howling Commandos, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bucky & Thor Friendship, Bucky Barnes Is Not Your Damsel, Dark Steve Rogers, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Slow Build, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 107,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I just want you to know," Steve said, staring at the ceiling, the dark giving him the strength to say the words he hadn't been able to earlier, "that I'm not – this isn't about saving you or recreating the past or anything like that. I know things are different. I know we can never go back. The people we both were...they died a long time ago." </i><br/> <br/>Steve thought once he found Bucky again, the hard part would be over. But the real journey back to each other was only just beginning. They each had a path to take - a path of redemption and self-discovery, a path of self-destruction and revenge.  Along the way, they would need to rediscover each other: as family, as friends, and something new.  And to learn that this new chance at life isn't really about starting over; it's about moving on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Part I - "I'm With You...")

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian translation of this fic can be found [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4509298). 
> 
> [Lovesfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic) has also made some amazing banners for the story: [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6269140).

For all that Steve had been waiting and hoping and praying for this moment – since he'd woken up in a hospital room with the knowledge that Bucky had been the one who'd pulled him out of the Potomac – he hadn't given a whole lot of thought to what came next. Six months of searching, of following far too many dead-end leads, of sleepless nights and wasted days, and here he was. Bucky was sitting across from him, seventy-odd years in the future, impossibly alive. Not a ghost-voice in his head or a too-bright memory of the life he used to have or an insistent throb of _if only you'd tried harder, reached further, done more, you might have saved him._

 _If only if only_. 

This was real. This was happening. The impossible made possible by some unholy miracle of evil scientific genius that Steve couldn't quite bring himself to abhor. Not if it meant Bucky was still alive. Alive and well and mostly whole – face scruffy and dark hair almost to his shoulders, most of it hidden by a ball cap pulled down low on his forehead. Wearing comfortable looking, worn clothes – soft t-shirt, frayed jeans, and a thin jacket that mostly hid the silver shine of his left arm. Blue eyes clear and looking at him in recognition, not clouded with pain or confusion or anger. Lips curved into a small semblance of the easy smile Bucky used to pull out all the time.

Bucky. Alive. It was all Steve had ever prayed for.

But now that Steve was here, the miracle sitting just a table's width between them, the chasm seemed impossible to cross. He had no idea what came next. No idea what to say, how to act. He had no plan of action, or any plan at all. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words around the man he'd known his entire life.

Bucky was the one to finally break the silence. "You just gonna sit there looking at me all night or you gonna say something?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah." Steve shook his head, offered an apologetic smile. The last thing he wanted was to make Bucky feel uncomfortable around him. "Sorry. Woolgathering."

Bucky's brows drew together in a frown. He didn't look convinced. "If you say so."

"Look, it's just…this is a little weird for me. That's all." Which had to be the understatement of the goddamn century.

Bucky let out an unamused laugh. "Welcome to the club."

"Yeah, you're right." As crazy and weird as this was for Steve, it had to be ten times worse for Bucky. At least Steve _knew_ who Bucky was. "Well, um, I guess I just..." 

He stopped, unsure of what it was he was even going to say. What he _could_ say? The most important conversation of his life, and he was having it in a sleepy little diner in some small town in Texas over homemade pie, of all things. 

"You guess...?" Bucky prompted, twirling a finger in a 'come on' motion.

"Um, well...look. Have you got a place to stay tonight or...?" Steve wiped clammy hands on his jeans. "I mean, I'm not trying to – I've just. I've got a room. I mean, if you wanted a place to crash. Or shower. Or –"

"I make you nervous." Bucky cocked his head, a curious look on his face. "Why?"

"I...I don't know." Which was both the truth and a lie. He'd never been nervous around Bucky a day in his life, but these weren't exactly normal circumstances. And Bucky wasn't exactly _Bucky_ these days.

Bucky made a small noise and went back to his pie. Steve waited a beat for Bucky to say something else, then lifted his own fork when it became clear that Bucky wasn't interested in adding to the conversation.

After a couple of minutes of silent eating, the only sounds the hum from the refrigeration units in the kitchen and the slight squeak of the fans overhead, Bucky glanced up through lowered lashes. His face was still mostly shadowed by his ball cap. "A shower would be...nice."

Steve tried very hard not to sag in relief. It was a step in the right direction, at least. "Okay," he said, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Okay, I can do that. Give you that."

"You said you wanted to help," Bucky said, after another minute. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, of course." Steve leaned in, eager, willing. _Just give me something to do. Give me a task, a mission, someone to fight, anything._ "Whatever you need."

"Tell me what you remember."

"About you?" At Bucky's nod, Steve wiped a hand over his mouth. Let out a muffled, mirthless chuckle. "Jesus, are you kidding me right now? I remember _everything_. You, our childhood, our friends, our families, hobbies, dreams...all of it." Bucky was grafted in Steve's bones, as much a part of Steve's DNA as his own. 

"Then tell me about him." Bucky gestured at him with his metal hand. "This Bucky of yours."

 _This Bucky of yours._ Like they were talking about some stranger. But, in a way, weren't they? The man in front of him _wasn't_ Bucky. Not yet, Steve reminded himself. Maybe not ever again. But if Bucky wanted to know who he was and where he came from, then Steve would be happy to help.

"That's a tall order." Where to even begin? With how they'd grown up together, as close as brothers? How they'd looked out for each other and their families, shared secrets and hopes and fears with the other? With the Great Depression and how they'd had to scrape together just to survive? How Bucky and his family had been there for Steve in the dark days after his mother died? With the War and how they'd both wanted to serve, to protect the innocent, and make a better world for their future kids? With what Bucky had been like: the funny, generous, smart person he'd been, how he was the only person who'd ever _seen_ Steve before the serum had amplified everything? How losing him had been like losing part of himself, the best part of what made Steve _Steve_? 

He lifted a hand – to do what, he wasn't sure – then, just as quickly, lowered it. Stuck. Too much information clogging his throat, paralyzing him. "I don't know where to start."

"I got time," Bucky said, with a shrug. His eyes were hooded. It was hard to get any sort of read on him. Which was another very new thing – Bucky used to be an open book, his emotions all right there on the surface, easy for anyone to decipher. Worst poker face on the planet, Dum Dum used to joke. Easier to fleece than a baby.

Steve missed Dugan and the rest of the Howlies so much it was a physical, palpable hurt.

"Well...he – well, _you_ – I've known you all my life," he started, because he may as well get the basics out of the way. "We lived just up the block from each other. Two buildings over, in fact, until a place opened up on your floor when I was six, and my mom and I moved into it. Our dads served together in the Great War – World War I, I mean. The way your dad told it, mine saved his life in Soissons, and they made a promise to look after the other's family if anything should happen to the other."

"So my father...kept his end of the bargain?" Bucky asked, carefully sounding out each word like he wasn't sure what order they went in.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, he did. Sought out my mom as soon as he got back from the front, and that's how my mom and yours became friends. What with both of them being new mothers and all." 

Tines scraped across the plate as Bucky chased a few stray crumbs. It reminded Steve so much of how he used to be – how he'd always had the biggest sweet tooth, especially for his mom's homemade apple pie – that his breath caught momentarily. Bucky glanced up with a curious look. "Go on."

"I can't remember a time when we weren't friends," Steve continued, floundering, still trying to figure out the right combination to make everything right. "When you weren't pulling me out of scrapes or teaching me how to throw a punch or asking me to draw something for you or telling me terrible jokes or keeping me company when I was sick. These last couple of years without you...I've missed you every day."

"I wish I could say the same." Bucky even looked like he meant it. Somehow, it made it worse.

"It's okay." 

It wasn't. It would _never_ be okay. Steve's one constant, his true north, had always been Bucky's faith and belief in him. Even after Bucky'd fallen, Steve had held onto that as a talisman. Stay a good man. Be the man Bucky always thought you were. Protect the innocent. Fight the good fight. Make Bucky proud.

And now, even that comfort had been stripped away. Just one more indignity in the never-ending list of things Hydra had stolen from him.

"What else?" Bucky prompted, when Steve fell silent.

"What do _you_ remember?" Steve asked. Maybe if he had some frame of reference, something to go on, he could figure out what to do. A building block for how to put the fractured pieces of his best friend back together again. Anything would help.

For a long time, Bucky just sat there, said nothing, didn't move. Steve waited it out, content to let Bucky go wherever he needed in his own head – patient in a way he'd never been, not once, in his entire life. But this was worth it. Bucky coming back to him – no matter how different things were or they themselves were – was worth the wait.

Finally, Bucky's face cleared and he started to speak. But his eyes had a faraway glaze to them. "I remember being a kid and laughing over something until I was snorting milk out of my nose. I remember wearing a blue overcoat and laying on my stomach in the mud and reeking of gunpowder and waiting for the perfect shot. I remember sneaking cigarettes sitting on the steps of a fire escape so you – I'm assuming it was you – wouldn't have to inhale the smoke. I remember that we used to share Cokes on the rooftop in the summer. I remember sitting at a campfire with a group of men – you beside me – and passing a bottle of wine around. I remember sticky kisses from three different little girls and how hearing their laughter was like music."

"Your younger sisters," Steve told him, his throat so tight he could barely scrape out the words. _Jesus_ , none of this was right. "Their names were Rebecca, Alice, and Grace."

"Becca, Al and Gracie," Bucky recited, with another faraway look. "Gracie was the baby."

"Yeah, she was." Steve dropped his voice, reluctant to break the spell of whatever memory Bucky was having. "She used to trail around you like you hung the moon. They all did." 

_We all did. You were always the brightest star out of all of us._

"They called you Stevie. Their Stevie doll." Those bright blue eyes zeroed in on him like a target. "You bitched about it all the time, but you secretly liked it."

"Yeah. I did." He bit at his lower lip to keep it from visibly trembling. He'd give – fuck, he'd give just about anything to hear any one of them call him Stevie doll again. Just once. "I miss them every day, too."

He missed everything about them – Becca's razor-sharp sense of humor and Al's love of all the stray cats in the neighborhood and Gracie's infectious laugh and practical advice. His sisters, in all but blood.

"I wish I –" Bucky stopped, and shook his head. He fell silent and still once more. 

Steve wanted, desperately, to ask him to finish the thought, but didn't. He didn't want to make anything worse. Fuck, Sam should be here – he'd know how to talk to Bucky, how to draw him out, how to tease the memories out of him without doing any more permanent damage. 

"We've got time, it's okay," he said, instead. Desperate to let Bucky know he understood, even though he didn't. "We don't have to do this tonight," he added, because that was the most important thing.

They'd found each other again. Steve could handle everything else.

"I think the diner's closing soon," Bucky commented.

Steve turned his head. There still wasn't anyone in the dining room other than the two of them, but now he could hear the sound of murmured voices and the clattering of pots coming from the kitchen. "You wanna head over to the motel?"

Bucky nodded, set down his napkin. "I'll meet you outside."

"Okay." Steve didn't want to let Bucky out of his sight – it had been hard enough finding him in the first place – but they had to start somewhere. And he had to trust that Bucky wasn't going to bolt on him the second his back was turned.

He stood, tossed a few bills on the table for the pie and the Cokes, and strode out to the parking lot to wait by his bike. He should call or text Sam, let him know Natasha's intel had paid off. For that matter, he should call Natasha to thank her. But something stilled his hands. He wasn't ready to share Bucky yet, not even with the people he considered his closest friends these days, people who'd been there for him. Who'd helped him and _seen_ him, when no one else had ever bothered to look under the perfect Captain America exterior to see the person beneath. The person quietly drowning in his own guilt and regret and the echoes of the screams of all the people (the one person) he couldn't save.

Just for tonight, he was going to be selfish. Give himself this. Take something just for Steve Rogers, the man. Even if he'd pay for it later. The sacrifice would be worth it, whatever it was.

He watched through the windows as Bucky grabbed his backpack and headed to the counter. The woman (the night manager or maybe even the owner, Steve didn't want to assume) who'd greeted Steve when he'd walked in and had given him and Bucky pie and space to talk privately, walked out of the kitchen a moment later. And, even with Steve's superior hearing, he couldn't make out what either of them said to the other. But he did smile when she pulled Bucky down to her for a gentle hug. Smiled even wider when Bucky, after a moment where he went rock still, gingerly returned it. Soft and sweet and artlessly charming.

Something of the old Bucky Barnes was still inside him somewhere. Hydra hadn't been able to erase everything.

Bucky walked out a few moments later, and came to a stop in front of Steve. "Yours?" he asked, nodding to the bike.

"Yeah. Did you...are you on foot or do you have a car...?" There was only one in the lot, but that didn't mean much of anything.

"Been walking mostly or hitching rides." Bucky shrugged like it was no big deal. "Easier to stay off the grid if I didn't have to worry about a vehicle."

Steve nodded. It made sense. "Do you, uh, do you mind riding back with me? We could walk, if you wanted, I mean, whatever you –"

"It's fine." He pushed the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. "How far is the motel?"

"Next exit east," Steve said. "About a mile."

"Okay."

Steve climbed on and started the bike. Bucky slid in behind him, and this, at least, was a little like the way things used to be. Before, in Brooklyn, Bucky'd had an ancient Harley he'd kept running with elbow grease and old-fashioned duct tape. Bucky's various girlfriends had always refused to ride on it, so it became his and Bucky's mode of transport. In fact, Bucky'd been the one who'd taught Steve how to ride a bike. But, a lot of the time, he and Steve had been in the garage on their block fiddling with the engine or patching up holes in the pipes and tires. It was how they'd both learned to pull apart engines, and put them back together. Taught themselves practical engineering and mechanics. 

The ride was a short one, and Steve was pulling into the motel lot a few minutes later. Bucky climbed off without a word, and Steve followed suit, the silence lasting until Steve unlocked the door to his room and ushered Bucky inside. It wasn't much – just a bed and a dresser with a mounted TV on the wall, and a tiny sitting area with two chairs and a small table between them. But it was clean and private. He and Bucky had bunked in far worse places growing up and in the War.

"Sorry about the, uh..." Steve gestured at the single, king-sized bed. "I didn't know I'd be having –"

"It's fine." Bucky looked around the small room, no outward sign of emotion on his face. "I'm used to the floor."

"Oh, that's not –" Steve stopped. _He doesn't know you_ , he reminded himself. "You take the bed. I insist."

"That's not what you were going to say." A statement, not a question.

"No, it wasn't," Steve replied, because he'd promised himself if he ever found Bucky again he would never lie to him. And Steve wasn't about to break that promise, no matter how uncomfortable he was right now. "I was just...it's a pretty big bed. And sometimes we had to double up bunks during the War and, more often than not, we were paired up those nights –"

"Okay." Bucky shrugged like it was no big deal, and unslung the backpack from his shoulder. "I'm going to shower."

"Uh, okay," Steve said, but Bucky had already crossed the room and shut the door to the tiny bathroom. Steve heard the water start up a minute later.

He looked around, rubbed his hands on his jeans, and let out a slow breath. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing. What Bucky was going through was beyond his ability to fix or mend or...

 _No._

He was going about this entirely the wrong way. _Thinking_ about it like it was a problem to be solved or a mission to complete.

It wasn't his job to fix Bucky. Bucky wasn't some broken _thing_ that needed to be rebuilt from scratch or an engine that needed repair. Bucky was a highly trained, highly skilled soldier ( _assassin_ , his brain supplied) who knew how to survive on his own without Steve's _help_. He was also Steve's best friend – whoever he was now, whoever he was learning to be – and nothing would change that. And Steve's only job right now was to provide whatever support Bucky needed. If he just needed a place to sleep and recharge, Steve could provide that. If he wanted to know about the past Hydra had stolen from him, Steve would answer any questions he could. If he wanted to stay up all night and watch bad movies, Steve was sure they could find something on TV or Steve's laptop they could agree on. It didn't matter.

He took off his boots and jacket, then grabbed his Kindle from his duffle. Sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, and opened it to the book he'd just started the previous night. His heart wasn't really in it, but it was something to do. And it was better than pacing the very cozy confines of the room.

After awhile, he heard the water shut off, but it was still some time before the door opened. Steam billowed out of the bathroom as Bucky stepped out, bare-chested and towel drying his hair, wearing a ragged pair of jogging pants. He hadn't shaved, so the bottom half of his face was still hidden with scruff, but he did look better. Brighter, if Steve had to put a name to it. More like a person than a shadow.

"You growing it out?" he asked, setting down his Kindle, and gesturing at Bucky's hair.

Bucky shrugged. "For the time being."

Steve didn't want to glance down, didn't want to see the scars on Bucky's shoulder and chest. Didn't want the visceral, tangible reminder of his own failure and Hydra's perfidy. But he wasn't a coward, and they were going to have to talk about it sooner or later. 

The marks were red and angry and spider-webbing all along the edges of where the metal was tucked into flesh. Steve's hands clenched into fists. "You...does it hurt or anything?"

Bucky gave him a quizzical glance, then followed Steve's gaze to his shoulder, and shook his head. "It's not relevant."

The Bucky he used to be – before the War had hardened him into steel – used to feel so keenly, would cluck and sympathize over his sisters' various scraped knees and elbows. Would stay glued to Steve's side when he was sick, fussing over him just as much as Steve's own mother. Used to sing Steve the Irish lullabies Sarah Rogers had taught them both, his voice soothing, a balm against the worst aches and pains. The old Bucky'd had bottomless wells of empathy and compassion.

 _Jesus, what did they_ do _to you?_

Steve's heart threatened to splinter. "It really is," he said, forcing the bile down his throat.

"I haven't thought about it," Bucky replied, flexing the arm, servos clicking and whirring with the movement. "It's my arm. It serves its purpose and functions within normal parameters. I don't really remember what it was like to have a flesh one."

"Yeah, okay. I'm sorry, I...I get it." Steve got the feeling he'd either asked the wrong question or fucked up somewhere, but he couldn't dwell on it. "Are you...are you tired or –?"

"You're still nervous." Bucky dropped the towel to the carpet and crossed his arms. "Are you afraid I'll try to attack you aga–?"

"God no, no," Steve interrupted, horrified. "You're not gonna hurt me."

"I shot you in the gut two times and once in the thigh," Bucky stated. His voice was completely impassive. "I tried to bash your skull in. I almost choked you to death."

"That was before. Are you planning on doing any of those things now?"

"No," Bucky said, after a moment. He looked so sad. Sad and troubled and a little lost. "I have no interest in harming anyone." The _anymore_ was left unspoken.

Steve smiled, giddy in a way he couldn't really explain. His chest expanded and his breathing eased. "That's good. That's great, even." 

Bucky bent to pick up the towel, slung it over his arm. He disappeared back in the bathroom for a minute, and came out empty-handed. "So, if you're not worried, why are you nervous?"

"Um." It took Steve a minute to pick up the thread of the conversation. Then he grimaced. "I guess I'm just afraid of saying the wrong thing."

"You went through a lot of trouble to find me," Bucky replied. "I'm not going to leave before I hear why you bothered."

"You _know_ why."

"Because we grew up together."

"Because I'm _with_ you," Steve corrected. "To the end of the line, the end of the galaxy, the end of the fucking universe, it doesn't matter. You're family. I don't care what you did for Hydra while they held you prisoner. You're still you. And I'm not giving up on you, not now, not ever."

"Yes, you said. Back at the diner." But Bucky took a seat on the edge of the bed, faced Steve. He tucked damp strands of hair behind his ears. "Tell me how you found me."

"Got a clear screenshot of you culled from security footage in Dallas at the Kennedy Plaza, and then picked up CB chatter from a trucker heading west who mentioned picking up a hitcher, matched your description," Steve said, then swallowed. He really didn't want to ask his next question. "Were you...were you in Dallas for a reason? At the...at the Plaza for a reason?"

"If you're asking me if I killed U.S. President John F. Kennedy, the answer is yes." Bucky said it without inflection. With a perfectly blank expression. It somehow made it worse. "I didn't need to go to Dallas to remember that. I remember all of my kills for Hydra."

 _Jesus_. It took every ounce of will for Steve to keep still. "That wasn't you. They used you." He repeated it internally, a mantra, a reminder. They'd _forced_ Bucky to kill for them, to commit treason, to serve their own nefarious ends. Bucky had been tortured, brainwashed, lied to, over and over and over, for years, for _decades_ , while Steve had slept on ice, unable to do a damn thing to stop it. 

"I know." Bucky offered a tiny, ironic smile. "I knew they were using me at the time. Knew they didn't give a good goddamn about me beyond my ability to kill for them, to make the impossible shot, to take out the impossible targets. They'd just programmed me not to _care_ about the morality of it all."

Steve's hands balled into fists again. Rage swept over him in a shuddering wave, and he yanked it back by the barest of threads. "So...if it wasn't to...jog your memory, why were you in Dallas?" he asked, proud that his voice was mostly steady.

"Honestly? To triangulate the shot I'd taken, see if I remembered it correctly." Bucky tapped at his temple. "I told you. I get things mixed up. What I've read, what's real. It's hard sometimes to know the difference. Going...sometimes seeing the sites helps put things where they belong."

There were so many things Steve wanted to say. So many things he wanted to promise – Hydra would pay, he'd raze them to the ground, scatter their ashes across the four corners of the earth, he'd annihilate anyone who had a hand in Bucky's incarceration – but that wasn't what Bucky needed at the moment. "Did you figure it out?"

Bucky nodded. "It was a tricky shot, but yeah, I remember how I did it." He didn't offer any further detail, and Steve wasn't about to press. Bucky was more than welcome to keep his secrets, whatever they were.

But there were so many Kennedy assassination conspiracy theorists who would give their last dollar to be sitting where he was right now. "Is that what you've been doing since the helicarrier?"

"More or less, for the past three months." Bucky didn't offer any more information about what he'd been doing the three months before that, or anything else, and Steve didn't want to press. If Bucky didn't want to talk about it, then Steve would respect that.

"So, where were you headed next?" 

"Hadn't decided," Bucky replied, but from the slight way he stiffened, Steve thought maybe he had and just didn't want to say. 

"Do you...do you want to come back to New York with me?" he asked, parsing each word out slowly.

"No." It wasn't said unkindly, but Steve couldn't help the flinch.

 _He doesn't know you. He might never know you._

"Why?" he asked, trying to keep the sting of rejection from his tone.

Bucky looked at him out of cool, flat eyes. "I don't want to talk about it tonight."

There was a note of finality in Bucky's tone that Steve was smart enough not to mess with. There'd be time to deal with that later. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy. Known going in that progress would be measured in micro degrees, not miles. "Okay," he said, giving Bucky his space. Letting him know he understood. That he wouldn't pressure Bucky for anything he wasn't ready to share or give. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me about my mother. Tell me about her meatloaf."

"Um." Steve blinked, nonplussed. Of all the things he'd prepared himself for Bucky to want to ask him about, Winny's cooking hadn't even made the list. "She made it on the spicy side –"

"Lots of pepper," Bucky interrupted, with a nod. "And something else."

"Yeah, lots of pepper and garlic," Steve replied. "You remember that?"

"I remember what it tasted like, but I can't remember what she _looked_ like." Now Bucky's gaze was haunted, lost. A boy trying to remember the first most important person in his world. "Can you tell me that?"

Steve leaned forward, touched the back of Bucky's hand with delicate fingers. "Yeah, of course I can. I can even draw you a sketch of her, if you'd like."

"That's right. You can draw. You're really good at it – or, you were." Bucky smiled a little to himself. "You used to doodle all the time."

"Still do," Steve replied, and reached into his bag to grab his sketch pad. He handed it to Bucky. Happy to share this part of himself with someone who'd understood the escape his art had always provided. How it had helped him see the world, see the beauty in it despite all of the darkness and despair they'd grown up with. "Here, have a look while I work on drawing you a picture of your mother."

Bucky took it gingerly, like it was a live grenade and he was afraid it might go off. "You don't mind?" He glanced up, worried.

"No, of course not. You're welcome to look at any of my drawings whenever you want." He drummed his fingers on the pad. "Buck, you don't need to ask permission for _anything_ where I'm concerned. Whatever you want to know, whatever you want to see, whatever you want me to share with you. _Whatever_ you need from me, just assume the answer's yes."

Bucky seemed to absorb the words for a moment, then cocked his head, studied him. "You really aren't afraid of me."

"No," Steve replied, as truthfully as he knew how. "And I never will be."

At that, Bucky nodded, then opened up the cover. Steve grabbed a sheet of graphite paper out of his bag and a pencil and bent his head. It wouldn't be the best drawing, but he could take his time later, give Bucky a portrait he'd be able to frame if he wanted or fold up and keep in his backpack if he wanted to do that instead. This was simply to jog Bucky's memory. To help him remember.

The only sounds in the room were the scratch of his pencil on the paper and the slight rustle as Bucky turned another page. Steve wanted to ask what Bucky thought of the sketches – if he remembered all the times Bucky and his sisters would beg him to draw one more thing, Stevie, pretty pretty please, can you do a flower next or an angel or make me look like a princess from the stories, pleeeeease. If Bucky remembered all the times Steve used to draw Bucky quick little cartoons just to make him laugh after a long day, if he remembered all their art classes and how Steve may have been the more naturally gifted of the two of them, but Bucky's use of color had been exquisite. How they'd planned for a future where Bucky would get an apprenticeship at Stark Industries, would learn to design and build amazing things, and Steve would make all the ads and artwork for them. How they'd both marry a couple of swell dames (sometimes sisters, sometimes not) and live down the block from each other, maybe even next door if they could manage it, and how their kids would grow up together, just like they had. Inseparable, together to the end, best friends always.

They'd had so many dreams, made so many plans...

He stopped, looked down at the drawing with a critical eye. He'd gotten Winny's brows and the curve of her mouth right, but her chin was slightly off. And he didn't have any colored pencils, so he couldn't shade in the rich sable of her hair or the brilliant blue of her eyes. Eyes that had radiated kindness and strength and a fierce, burning intelligence and desire to _know_ more, to know everything.

Bucky's eyes. 

"I'm, uh..." Steve cleared his throat. "I'm done. If you wanted to see..."

Bucky looked up. Held out his hand without a word, his mouth a thin, flat line. Steve gave him the paper and eagerly watched as Bucky gazed at the sheet with an inscrutable expression. For the longest time, neither one spoke. Then Bucky glanced up, a telltale sheen in his eyes. "She used to read to me at nights."

"Yeah." Steve fought back his own tears. Suddenly, he missed both their mothers so much he couldn't breathe. Missed Sarah's hugs and Winny's smiles and how everything he'd ever learned of decency and kindness and empathy and compassion came from the two of them. The best women he'd ever known or ever would know. "She used to read you and your sisters fairy tales and stories passed down from her childhood. Whenever I stayed over, she'd read them for me, too." 

My darling boys, she'd called them. And Steve, who of course thought the sun rose and set on his own mother, still thrilled every time Winny had called him that. Had smiled and blushed, because he wasn't anything special, not like Bucky, not like the girls. But she'd always made him feel like he _was_ special. Worth something.

"What happened to her?" Bucky was gripping the piece of paper so tightly Steve was afraid it might tear. "To her and my father...my sisters?"

He could do this. He could give Bucky this much, at least. But his breath was shaky and he had to sit on his hands so Bucky wouldn't see the tremors. "Your folks...you ma passed first. 1958, of cancer. Your father had a massive heart attack a year later. Your sisters...they all married, all had kids and grandkids...they..." His voice broke. "I'm sorry, I can't..."

"No, it's." Bucky patted his knee awkwardly. His face softened in sympathy. A familiar look, Bucky through and through. "I forgot. They were your family too."

Steve nodded, mute. Sure, the girls had been Bucky's blood relatives, but everyone in the Barnes clan had treated him like one of their own, just as Steve's own mother had done for them. Family, in every way that mattered.

"We can talk about this later," Bucky offered, but Steve quickly shook his head. This was important. Bucky needed this – needed _him_. He could power through it.

"No, it's okay –"

"Steve." Bucky smoothed the edges of the sheet, taking extra care with the slight wrinkles he'd created. His gaze didn't waver from Steve's. "Stop acting like I'll break. I may not remember my past, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten how to observe people. My job depended on it for a great number of years. You're _not_ okay. Don't pretend you are."

"You're right," Steve admitted. "I'm not." He swiped angrily at the tears at the corners of his eyes. "I'm fucking pissed off at everything we missed, all of the celebrations and heartaches and small moments...and it tears me up to know that they all died with both of us still lost and thinking that we – they deserved better."

"So did we," Bucky replied, with a small smile that was so _Steve's_ Bucky, the friend he'd lost and thought he'd never get back, that something inside Steve shattered. 

He tried to rein it in, pull back, but there was no hiding, not from the way Bucky was looking at him, like he could see right through to the aching, grieving core of him. Like he was letting Steve know, it was alright, he could let go. 

In the end, it was the easiest thing in the world to allow Bucky to tug him onto the bed, to fall in Bucky's arms as tears, so jealously guarded from everyone else, fell. He held onto Bucky's waist as tight as he could and wept, both for himself and Bucky, and for the family who'd never had closure. For Winny and George, and Becca and Al and Gracie – who'd all mourned Steve and Bucky with equal grief and had never stopped hoping Howard or the government or someone would find their boys and bring them home. Who'd all grown old and died without ever knowing the truth.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, when the tears finally slowed to a trickle. But he didn't move. 

"Don't be." Bucky patted his back, the metal cool and welcome against his skin, even through the thin barrier of his shirt. "You're not alone either, you know," he said, when Steve finally lifted his head. The look on his face was unbearably sad. "You don't have to do this by yourself."

He didn't know _how_ to do anything else. "No one needs to carry any of my burden for me these days," he said. It was his job now to take care of other people. His job now to take care of Bucky. To give back, reciprocate the best way he could for all the years when Bucky'd finished all the fights he couldn't. "My shoulders are wide enough now." His mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "They can carry a lot."

"That doesn't mean you should have to," Bucky argued. "You have a team now, right? Friends?"

Steve nodded, but didn't say anything. How could he explain that it wasn't the same? That Natasha and Sam were amazing people and better friends than Steve deserved, but it wasn’t enough. Steve didn’t _know_ them, not where it counted. 

(In another life, he wouldn't have _had_ to explain himself. Not to Bucky.) 

He was so fucking tired. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the lateness of the hour. "You have any more questions?" he asked, and couldn't summon the energy to care that his voice was leaden, worn to the nub.

Bucky shook his head. "You should get some rest."

"Funny, I was getting ready to tell you the same," Steve replied, then untangled himself from Bucky's hold and stood. "You go ahead and get in. I need to brush my teeth, change into my pjs, that sort of thing."

For a second, Bucky looked like he was going to argue, but then he nodded. "I'll be here."

"I'm glad." Steve summoned a real smile, then gathered his sleep pants and hygiene kit and bolted for the bathroom door. The second it was shut behind him, he sank to the floor, and wrapped his arms around his knees. 

It was a long, long time before he moved.

***

By the time he made it back out into the bedroom – all telltale evidence of his tears, his weakness, ruthlessly scrubbed away – the light was off, and he could make out Bucky's prone form under the blanket on the far side of the bed. Steve lifted the covers and crawled in, careful not to jostle the mattress. If Bucky was asleep, he didn't want to disturb his rest. But, from the way Bucky was breathing and lying far too stiff – carefully so – it was clear sleep wouldn't be coming for either of them for a good while yet.

"I just want you to know," Steve said, staring at the ceiling, the dark giving him the strength to say the words he hadn't been able to earlier, "that I'm not – this isn't about saving you or recreating the past or anything like that. I know things are different. I know we can never go back. The people we both were...they died a long time ago." 

Had died on a train in the Alps, or maybe even before that. Austria or Italy or France or in a secret facility behind an antiques shop in Brooklyn Heights. Things hadn't been the same in a very long time.

"Good," Bucky said, after a long, charged moment. "I don't...going back isn't an option." His voice was preternaturally quiet.

"No, it isn't. I just...it's important to me that you remember that, okay? That you know I get it. I'm not expecting you to be someone you're not now."

"Okay." A brief pause. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Steve replied. His chest felt a little less tight, but it was a very long time before he trusted himself to close his eyes.

***

_The private room was spacious and clean and sunlit, but not even the large windows and cheerful paint could hide the antiseptic smell of sickness, of death, lingering in the air. A smell Steve knew by heart, learned over a lifetime of too many hospital stays._

_The figure on the bed was withered, old, kept alive by a series of tubes and machines and drugs. The best modern medicine could provide. Nothing else would suffice for Alice Miller, founder and long-time CEO of the Leon Corporation, and the last surviving sister of the great hero, Sergeant Bucky Barnes._

_Steve approached the railing with light steps, his heart in his throat. He'd put this off as long as he could, but he couldn't any longer. There wasn't much time left._

_He took in the faded, wrinkled features, the pale face slack with sleep, the wispy white hair, and the far too frail body. His hand crept forward, gently rested over Alice's, thumb rubbing over paper-thin skin. "I'm so sorry, Al," he whispered._

_The last time he'd seen her, she'd been seventeen and ready to take on the world. Still coltish and filled with energy and vitality and a fervent desire to do good, to make a difference. All of the Barnes girls had been dead set on setting fire to the world with their ambition, but Alice had always had that extra spark._

_He bent to press a light kiss to her forehead, blinked back the tears threatening to fall. "He'd be so proud of you," he said, in the same hushed tone. "So proud of all of you."_

_Her lips parted on a sigh, but she didn't move. He stayed another minute, drinking her in, memorizing her one last time, then left the room to go introduce himself to her children and grandchildren._

***


	2. (Part II – "A Clean Slate")

Steve had always been a light sleeper. Too many years of either his own various illnesses or his mom's coughing from the TB had kept him from sleeping too heavy growing up. And the erratic sleep patterns during his years in the War and after the ice hadn't exactly helped. So, he knew to the second when Bucky woke up – could tell by the minute shift in his breathing and the way his body went perfectly still.

A quick peek at the bedside clock showed they'd both gotten a few good hours. Not enough – not nearly enough – but, hopefully, it would last them awhile. Steve was used to running on about four hours a night, if he was lucky. He had no idea if Bucky's version of the serum worked on him the same way. 

At least he hadn't had any nightmares. It was the first night since Steve had woken from the ice where he hadn't come to drenched in sweat, with the echo of Bucky's screams and the sound of Peggy's muffled crying echoing in his ears. He'd count it as a small victory and move on from there.

"Did I wake you?" Bucky's voice was hushed, barely audible.

"No," Steve answered, and it wasn't technically a lie. His own voice was just as quiet. "I don't need as much shuteye as I used to. It's fine."

"I should go."

" _What_?" Steve turned his head, met Bucky's resolute gaze. "Why?"

 _I just found you_ , he wanted to say, but didn't. It wasn't about him. His needs weren't important. 

"I can't..." Bucky sighed and scooted back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Steve quickly followed suit.

"What can't you do?" he asked. Placating, calm, hoping Bucky couldn't hear the strain in it, how much it was costing him to remain steady. "Is it me, have I pressured you, because I can –?"

"It's not you." Then Bucky shook his head. "It _is_ you, but not how you think."

"Okay?" Steve wasn't sure _what_ he was supposed to be thinking. The first rays of dawn were peeking through the thin curtains, turning everything hazy and gold. In this moment, he felt like maybe he and Bucky were the only two people on the planet. In a weird way, it seemed sort of apt.

"The answers I need...you don't have them," Bucky finally said. "I won't find them here. It...it wouldn't be...fair." He nodded, seemingly satisfied he had the right word. "It wouldn't be fair to expect you to."

"Alright," Steve said, slowly, trying to piece together what he thought Bucky was trying to tell him. Relearning Bucky's language one thought at a time. "So, you need...space? Is that it?"

"Yes," Bucky replied. His eyes were so troubled. "I'm sorry."

This wasn't about him, Steve reminded himself. This wasn't about his feelings or his comfort or his wants or anything else. This was about helping his best friend – his brother – have whatever tools he needed to regain himself, however he needed to do that.

"It's okay. You don't have to apologize." He was proud of himself for keeping his voice even, his breathing even. _Inhale one two three, exhale one two three_ , the habits of a lifetime taking over.

"I want to... I want to be... I have flashes, memories, feelings. I've remembered more in the last few hours with you than I have in the last six months on my own." Bucky's hand whirred softly when he pointed at his temple, tapped at vulnerable flesh. "Something about you...whatever it is we were to each other...it's important. You're important to me."

Was it possible for his heart to actually break while it was still beating in his chest? "To me, too," Steve managed through the glass ripping his throat to shreds. "You were – you _are_ – important. Your friendship...it's always been the most significant thing in the world to me."

"I know," Bucky told him. "But it...this friendship...it clouds things. I see you, and I want... I have this urge. To make you happy, to make sure you smile. Even if it means lying to you. To myself." He paused, like he was trying to figure out what to say next. "Does that? Do you feel that?"

"Yeah, Buck." His hands were shaking, his voice was shaking, all equilibrium vanished like it was never there. He felt like his soul would shatter at any moment. "It does. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he answered, aching, raw. _Helpless._ "I wish I did. But I get it. You can't be worried about me and yourself, and _you're_ the most important person right now, not me. So take...do what you need to do. Figure out who you are. I'll be around. I promise, I'm not going anywhere."

"Who I am." Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. "I don't _know_ who I am." 

"Well, I can't help you with that part. I wish I could, but I can't." It was so hard to breathe right now. He was six years old again, nine, twelve, sixteen, twenty – a lifetime of not having enough air in his lungs and fighting tooth and nail to live one more hour, one more minute. 

He'd survived then; he could survive now. He had survival down to an art form.

"I wish I could," he continued, when he thought he could speak. "I mean, I can tell you all about who you used to be. I can tell you about the boy I grew up with and the man I served with. I can tell you about my best friend and right-hand guy – but that's not you anymore."

"No, it's not," Bucky agreed softly. Like it was paining him just as much as Steve to say it out loud.

"But I'd like the chance to get to know you as you are now, if that's okay. Whenever you're ready." It was all he wanted. Just that chance to get to know this new Bucky, for Bucky to get to know the new him. For them to figure things out together, the way they always had. "And I'd like for you to get to know me."

"Good, because I don't know who you are, either," Bucky said, matter-of-fact. But his eyes – he couldn't hide the compassion in them, that innate _goodness_ that Hydra had never been able to fully erase, no matter how hard they'd tried. He couldn't hide the fact that this wasn't easy on him, either.

Somehow, it made things worse.

"That's fine. I'm not who I used to be." He thought about saying they'd changed well before Bucky fell or Steve was frozen or even before either of them had been forced to compromise every principle they'd ever had in the name of staying alive, but this wasn't the time. And it didn't matter anyway. "I'd rather start over than try to recreate something from our past."

"A clean slate." Bucky smiled, and there it was again. _His_ smile. That light, teasing grin that Steve knew by heart.

He returned it, relieved to his bones, and not bothering to hide it. This, at least, made sense. "That's right. A clean slate. For both of us." 

They could start over, maybe get things right this time.

"That sounds...doable," Bucky said, slowly, testing out the words. "I would like – it would be...good. To have an ally."

This was, at least, a promise Steve could make without even thinking about it. "I will always be in your corner, Buck. Whether you remember me or not, it doesn't matter. You're not alone, not ever again. I'll be your friend as long as I've got breath in my body."

Bucky nodded, but didn't say anything. Just fisted the sheets in a white-knuckle grip, and kept his eyes on Steve. Like he was trying to ask for something, but either didn't have the words or didn't want to say it aloud.

Steve licked dry lips. Once, he'd been able to read Bucky like a well-worn book. Now, he had no idea where to start trying to decipher this new code. "Do you...do you want to go now or...?"

Bucky shrugged, but he looked relieved, so that was something. Steve had managed to guess correctly. "I don't have to, but it might be easier. If I did."

"Okay. Whatever you need." Steve swung his legs to the floor, and stood. Put some distance between them, and hoped like hell Bucky couldn’t see how carefully he was keeping himself in check. He watched out of the corner of his eye while doing his usual morning stretches – nothing to see here, everything’s fine – as Bucky also climbed out from under the covers and grabbed his backpack. 

"I'm going to change," Bucky said, and disappeared into the bathroom again.

The second the door closed, Steve sank back on the edge of the bed, put his head in his hands. Gave himself over, for just a moment, to the riptide of emotions coursing through him, too many to name at once. He could do this. He could be the strong one. He could _be_ there for Bucky, whatever he needed, even if it was to be by himself. He had a lifetime's worth of debts to repay where Bucky was concerned, and this wouldn't even begin to scratch the surface of it. 

He'd managed to get himself under control by the time Bucky walked out, in the same jeans and boots as the previous night, but with a different t-shirt, this one plain black. His hair was pulled into a small ponytail and his hat was back on his head. Still had the scruff going, though. 

The old Bucky had taken a lot of pride in having smooth cheeks ( _the ladies don't like stubble, Steve, gotta make sure you're always clean shaven, alright_ ), but this new Bucky... Well, the beard suited him. Besides, beards were making a comeback. Maybe Steve would grow one himself, see how it felt.

"You gonna be okay finding a ride to wherever it is you're going?" he asked.

Bucky shrugged. "I'll get by."

No, that wouldn't do. Bucky may not want to come back to New York with Steve yet, and maybe he needed his space to figure things out, but he wasn't on his own. Not anymore. Steve wasn't just going to let him wander off on foot – not while he still had some say. 

He stood, crossed to his own bag and rifled through it for a minute. "Here." He handed over all of the cash he had in his wallet – it wasn't much, maybe a thousand bucks (it still felt weird to think that it _wasn't_ a large sum of money these days) – and the keys to the bike. "The cash is yours to keep. And if you need more money, let me know and I'll wire it to you. However much you need." God knew he wasn't spending any of it. "But I expect to get the bike back at some point."

Bucky's metal fingers closed over the keys. Then he blinked slowly up at Steve, surprise and something Steve couldn't name darting over his face. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "What's the real reason? Is it really out of loyalty to the memory of your friend? Whoever it was I used to be?"

Steve shook his head. "No, it's not that." And it wasn't. Not entirely. 

"Then why?"

 _Because I love you. Because you're the only family I have left. Because if the situations were reversed, you'd have done it for me. Because I owe you a thousand times over for everything you've done for me, even if you never remember any of it_. How in the world was he supposed to answer that question? How could he possibly hope to encapsulate everything they'd been to each other in something as meaningless as _words_?

He finally just shrugged and went with his gut. "Because I trust you," he said. "I've always trusted you."

Bucky nodded and dropped his head. But Steve heard the muffled, soft, "Thank you." It was enough. It was _more_ than enough.

"Um, and...whenever you can...if you want. I mean, if you have any questions or, seriously, if you need more funds or, I dunno, anything at all..." He grabbed his sketch pad, tore out a sheet, and scribbled his number on it. He handed it to Bucky. "That's my number if –"

"Do you still play chess?" The question was so abrupt Steve recoiled in shock.

"Yeah, of...wait, uh, you _remember_ that?" he breathed, his heart in his throat. He didn't dare hope. 

Bucky nodded again. "I remember us sitting on a bed with this beat up board between us and playing with these worn down pieces."

"We played a lot when I was sick," Steve confirmed. Bucky _remembered_ their games. This was...incredible. A fucking miracle. "It was...your dad taught both of us the basics. Said it would help us in school, make us smarter." And he'd been right, as far as that had gone. Playing chess had helped them both in school, but it had really helped when it came to Steve understanding the tactical strategies of all of the generals he used to read about when he was younger. Helped him and Bucky both immeasurably when it came to planning missions during the War.

A small smile came over Bucky's face. "I also remember I used to win our matches."

Steve wouldn't cry again. He'd shed enough tears last night for a lifetime. "You always did," he said, his voice thick and raw. "Best player I ever knew."

Bucky just cocked his head. Studied Steve for so long he started to fidget. Then his lips curved up again, his look fond. Familiar. "Pawn to E4."

Then he walked out the door without looking back, hat pulled low on his head, jacket tight around his body, backpack slung over his shoulder. Steve heard the rumble of the bike starting a moment later.

"Pawn to E4," Steve repeated to himself. "Pawn to E4." It took him a second to place it. But when he did, his knees threatened to give out, and he grinned, so wide it was a wonder his face wasn't cracking. 

The Spanish Opening.

He was ten years old and getting over a nasty bout of influenza. Bucky'd sent over a book of chess strategies ( _for our next match,_ he'd said), and Steve had spent that entire week poring over the pages, soaking in every word like it was Gospel. He was young and determined to finally best Bucky at this game, to finally win a match. He'd used that book as a springboard, went to the library so much in the ensuing months that year the staff all knew him by name, studied matches and books and talked to the old guys who played chess every morning in the park... And Bucky? Well, he'd encouraged it all, had been just as proud as anyone when Steve could rattle off moves, could explain the reasoning behind them all. _Smartest kid I know_ , Bucky'd used to say, and draped a friendly arm around Steve's skinny shoulders, with a grin as wide as the Hudson. _Gonna send him over to those fancy tournaments in the City and watch him wipe the floor with everyone._

Except, Steve never wanted to pit his skills against anyone except Bucky. Chess was _their_ game. His and Bucky's alone. 

"Yeah, alright, Buck. Let's do this," he said to himself.

He had his phone out a second later and was calling Sam. "Hey, buddy, I need a favor. Can you come to the diner about a mile east of the Motel 6 just outside Abilene, Texas? It's on Route 1. I sort of loaned my bike to Bucky."

***

_Steve yawned around a mouthful of toast and blinked sleepily at the benign chaos around him. George Barnes had long since retreated behind the flimsy shield of his newspaper, and Winnifred was busy at the stove, keeping an eye on the oatmeal while frying up eggs for George's breakfast. Across the table, Becca was trying her level best to ignore Al's sniffles and increasingly desperate pleas, and little Gracie babbled happily to herself from her high chair, banging her spoon against her tray. It was a far cry from the quiet breakfasts Steve normally shared with his own mother, but Sarah'd been on night shift rotation at the hospital for the last two weeks, which meant Steve had been sleeping over at the Barnes' every night. Which naturally meant he and Bucky had been staying up far too late telling each other jokes and going over every minute of that day's Uncle Don program._

_"Rebecca, give your sister back her doll, and Alice, stop that crying, sweetheart, you'll make yourself sick," Winnifred said, turning to deftly slide a full plate under George's newspaper. She held the pan up high. "Now, who's ready for some oatmeal?"_

_Steve nodded on another yawn, then startled when he felt a gentle kick to his shins. "Hmm?"_

_"Stay with me, buddy," Bucky whispered, and nudged Steve's elbow for good measure. "I'm outnumbered here and I need my right-hand man, alright."_

_"Yeah, sure, Buck," Steve mumbled, and propped his head up with his hand to try to stave off the inevitable crash as long as possible._

***

Sam had just left Fort Worth when Steve called, so it was going to take him a couple of hours to get out Steve's way. But the time was actually good, gave Steve a little space to think and to come up with a plan. He always worked better when he had one. He went for a run – one long enough to help clear his head and start to process everything that had happened in the last twelve hours – then came back to the room. Typed in a few notes, did a little bit of research, and made a couple of calls to Natasha and Tony to fill them in on the latest developments. Then he took a nice, long shower, got dressed, gathered his things, and checked out. 

He walked the mile or so up to the diner where he and Bucky'd met up last night, and stepped inside the foyer. The place was more crowded this morning, filled with families and truckers and a few people at the to-go counter who looked to be on their way in to work. A couple of smiling waitresses worked the floor, and he heard the sizzle of frying bacon and banging of pots from the kitchen, inhaled the rich scent of butter and hash browns and eggs.

He hoped that, wherever Bucky was off to next, he would remember to eat something.

"Captain, what an unexpected surprise."

He turned as the lady – the same one from the previous night – looked around him, and her open, generous face fell a fraction. "James not with you?"

Steve shook his head. He wondered if the same disappointment showed on his own face. "No."

"Sleeping in or...?"

"Gone," he told her, and ignored the pang in his chest. This _wasn't_ about him. "I gave him my bike and sent him – I mean, it was...I didn't – he wanted to. Said he had some things to, uh, work out. Alone."

"Still trying to find his way?" she guessed, with a shrewd look.

"Yeah," he said, smiling at her insight. Finding his way. Steve liked the sound of that. It was a helluva lot better than what he'd been thinking all morning. "Yeah, something like that."

She nodded, slow and thoughtful. "I guess I can see that. He seemed to have a lot on his mind."

That was one way of putting it. "Yeah, he's...he's going through a rough patch. But I have faith in him."

His faith in Bucky was as unshakable now as it had been back when they were kids, too.

"It's good he has you," she commented, then smoothed out her apron. "So, were you just passing through with an update or did you want a table...?"

"Oh, I'd love one. I'm waiting for my ride and I haven't had breakfast yet."

"Alright," she said with a smile. "Let's see what we can do about getting some food in you." She led him to a booth and gave him a menu to peruse while she went to grab him a cup of coffee and some water. 

"Hey, listen...," he said, when she made her way back to him, "I don't think I ever thanked you properly last night for what you did for Bu – for James. I'm more grateful than I can tell you."

"No need to thank me at all," she replied, setting his coffee cup on the table. "That young man needed help. I'm just thankful I was able to do something for him."

"So am I." She had the kindest face. Reminded Steve a little of Miss Maisie, who'd run the local produce stand in his and Bucky's old neighborhood, and had always made sure to pass a little extra to Steve ("to put some meat on those skinny bones of yours") when she could. No wonder Bucky felt so comfortable around her, even if he most likely couldn't remember why. "I never got your name."

"Bee. Bee Juniper."

"Steve Rogers." He took her hand and brushed a kiss across her work-rough knuckles. "It's a genuine honor to meet you, ma'am."

"Me?" She gestured at herself and laughed, musical and light. "I think it's the other way around. You're the hero out there saving people and putting yourself at risk. I'm just a simple woman."

"Not from where I'm sitting. The big acts of bravery – the ones that make the news and get the headlines and drive the media coverage – those are good, but they don't affect everyday life. The world really runs on the small, everyday acts of kindness and everyone working together to build something better. That's what you do, what you offer. And people like you are the true heroes."

Her eyes softened as she patted his hand. "Thank you, Captain. That's a very nice thing of you to say."

"I mean it. You are."

That's what Sarah Rogers and Winny Barnes had taught him and Bucky and the girls. What he and Bucky had tried to put out into the world. Small acts of kindness. Being the voice for the voiceless. Standing up for those that couldn't do it for themselves.

(And Hydra had _stolen_ that, twisted those tenets and perverted them until Bucky'd no longer known right from wrong or good from bad. Had made a mockery of every principle Bucky had stood for. There was no hole deep enough for any of them to crawl into where they'd be safe from Steve's wrath.)

"Has he given you the 'we're all on the same team' speech yet?" Sam slid into the seat across from Steve and gave Bee his signature wide, gap-toothed, charming grin. "Because that one's my favorite. Fills me with a righteous sense of patriotic duty every time I hear it."

Steve chuckled, his dark thoughts abating at the sight of his friend's smile, and kicked out to knock against Sam's foot. "Bee Juniper, meet Sam Wilson."

"It's nice to meet you," Sam said, his look turning flirtatious, sly. "And if you're the one responsible for those delicious looking pies I saw on the counter, I might just have to ask you to run away with me."

She grinned right back. "My John might take some exception to that."

Sam made a disappointed sound. "I take it he's bigger than me."

"Mmhmm," she replied, unimpressed. "But you can stay and have as many slices of pie as you like."

"I like her," Sam commented, with a look Steve's way.

"So did Bu - James."

"Oh, I see." Sam nodded, then smiled up at Bee again. "In that case, I may just have to dedicate a statue in your honor. That's quite a feat you pulled off."

"It was just a meal."

"Everyday heroes," Steve reminded her. "Trust me, you did more than you'll ever know and way more than I can ever thank you for."

"Well, I'll be thanking you by having pie for dessert," Sam stated. "Maybe two slices, because I can't decide between the strawberry rhubarb and boysenberry."

"You could always get a slice to go," Steve pointed out. "If you're that set on not choosing."

"See, I knew there was a reason we were friends."

Bee laughed and took their order, then left to go put it in. The minute they were alone, Sam pinned Steve with a serious look, all traces of the amiable, light-hearted man he'd been moments ago gone. A soldier to his core. "Alright, you wanna tell me what's going on, Cap? When I saw you last night, you said you were headed to the motel – you know, the one we were in back in _Ft. Worth_ – to get some sleep so we could get an early start this morning. How the hell'd you wind up two hours west with Bucky?"

Steve sighed. How was he supposed to explain something he didn't really understand himself? "It's kind of a long story."

Sam spread his hands out wide. "I am all ears, brother."

He didn't deserve a friend like Sam. But he was fiercely grateful to have him all the same.

"Well, I couldn't sleep. So I decided to take a drive," he started. "Which turned into stopping in at every roadside diner asking if anyone had seen someone matching Bucky's features. But...uh, I found _him_ instead. In this very diner, in fact."

"Okay." Sam drew the word out all slow. "So how'd that go?"

"I'm still trying to process it. He's...he's remembering things." _I've remembered more in the last few hours with you than I have in the past six months_. "Bits of his past, but...it's not all connecting or gelling together for him," Steve said. "We talked for a little while – I, um, I offered him the use of my room last night to get cleaned up and get some sleep, and he took me up on it."

"That's good, man, that's real good," Sam replied. "Did he have any questions or...?"

"Some. Mostly about his mother, his family. I answered as best I could but...I don't think I realized how hard it would be. To scrape over those wounds again." He should have been stronger, better prepared. Maybe then Bucky wouldn't have bolted.

If he got a next time, he wouldn't be so helpless. 

"He's not the only one who's been through a traumatic experience," Sam reminded him. "And you can't put your feelings on the backburner to help him out. That's not gonna do either of you a lick of good."

Steve knew that, he really did, but it was so hard to remember that he didn't _have_ to be strong all the time. That he had friends now, other people, who he could lean on. For so long – most of his life, really – it had just been him and his mom and Bucky's family. "But it helped. Well, I _thought_ it helped. Until this morning when he told me that he couldn't be around me while he was figuring everything out."

It wasn't about him. But he couldn't help feeling like he let Bucky down all the same. 

"That's a lot to lay at your feet," Sam said. "But you know it's not about you. This is about what he's dealing with."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Sam gave him a pointed glance. "Because I know you, Steve, and you would do your best to take on all his weight if you could, and you can't. He's gotta see this thing through on his own."

"No, I know." He'd gotten that message loud and clear last night _and_ this morning. "He'd kill me if I even tried, and I'd let him. It's not about carrying anything, it's just... It's hard to explain."

"You're worried he might not come all the way back, is that it?"

"Not really," Steve replied. "Sam, _I_ didn't come all the way back. Most days I feel like...like a shadow of who I used to be."

"I know that feeling," Sam replied, low, heartfelt. "I'm not sure you ever really lose it, either."

Riley. Steve nodded in understanding. It was easy to forget sometimes, behind Sam's easy smiles and easier laugh, that he'd also gone through a war. He'd also lost a friend, and a brother. Sam may – to put it in his own words – have tucked all of his pain and grief inside a little man-purse, but it was still there. Still a weight he'd carry for the rest of his life.

"I'm not worried about not coming back," Steve said. He’d already resigned himself to the nightmares and sleepless nights and feeling like nothing he ever did would be enough. "I just – sometimes I worry that neither of us has enough left in the tank to start over."

"Well, that's the first thing you've got to unlearn. This isn't about starting over. It's about moving on. And that's it."

Moving on. It sounded so simple when Sam said it. Doable. An objective Steve could accomplish.

"Hopefully it is. But that's Bucky's call to make."

"And what about you?" Sam leaned in, watchful gaze searching. "What're you gonna do in the meantime?"

"I'm going after Hydra," Steve said, simply. Even the simple act of _saying_ the name sent that same bolt of rage through him. A visceral punch that ripped through what was left of his soul. "I'm going to finish the job I _didn't_ seventy years ago. Everyone goes down, everyone pays. The entire organization, top to bottom, whoever's left, gets annihilated. No pity, no exceptions, no mercy."

"Sounds like a tall order for one man, Cap. Even if that man is you."

Steve could tell Sam was just humoring him, but it was alright. He knew what he had to do. Everything was crystal clear – he'd never been more certain about anything, couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted anything the way he wanted all of Hydra dead at his feet. 

"It might take me the rest of my life, but it's worth it. Anyone who had _anything_ to do with what happened to Bucky goes first. And then the rest of them, for trying to ruin Peggy's legacy. I'm not stopping until they're all put to justice." Steve's particular brand of justice.

"You got any idea where to start?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Steve replied. He knew his eyes were shining fever bright when he turned them Sam's way. It felt goddamn great to have an actual _mission_ again. "I've got a few."

***


	3. (Part III - "Kak tyebya zovut…")

He'd forgotten (had he ever known it in the first place?) the sheer freedom and joy of riding a bike. The wind in his hair, the deep rumble of the engine between his legs, the clarity and sharpness that came from having to pay extra attention to his surroundings – it was seductive. Addictive. No wonder there were cults and gangs devoted to these machines and this way of life. 

Given the choice, he would ride every day of the week.

Then he remembered he _did_ have the choice. He had all of the choices about what he could do and when. Which was...part of the problem. Half the time, he had no idea what to do with the terrifyingly bewildering array of options open to him. Ever since he'd pulled himself and Steve out of the Potomac, it felt like all he was doing was trying to figure out his next move, the next angle. Only there was no angle and there _were_ no moves. No mission parameters, no handlers waiting for updates, no one to give him orders. No one to give orders to.

He was free to follow his own orders. Free to choose his own missions. Free to define his own parameters. But there was no amount of recon or training or knowledge in his head from all of his previous missions that could help him now. He was on his own, for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Only...that wasn't true, either. He _wasn't_ alone. Steve Rogers was with him. Steve Rogers, who knew him; or, _had_ known him once upon a time. Steve Rogers, who he still couldn't _quite_ place, who had found him and offered him a respite from his search, offered him sanctuary and a way to access his memories, and a means to remember his past. 

Who had done all of this without question, asking for nothing in return except the one thing he didn't know how to give.

How could he give anyone his friendship when he didn't know who he was? How could he hope to be there for another person when he didn't know where _there_ was or here or anywhere else? He'd been trained to be a ghost. Trained to be a weapon. Only now, there was nowhere to aim himself and these days, he had no desire to pull the trigger.

He slowed the bike and took the next exit, pulled into the small, dusty gas station. If he was lucky, he could fill up the tank and be in El Paso by sundown, then drive through the night to the Mexico border into Torreón. He still wasn't sure what good it was going to do to follow this path, to retrace the previous kills he'd completed in Hydra's name, but it was better than wandering around aimlessly. And he wasn't ready yet to follow Steve, wherever that road might lead. He might never be ready.

The thought sat heavy on his chest, a crushing weight he wanted no part in keeping. 

He drew the piece of paper with Steve's number out of his jacket pocket, held it in metal fingers. He'd already memorized it, of course, but he took a moment to study the slope of Steve's handwriting, the deliberate way he curved his 6, the elegant tilt to the S of his first name. Tried to remember it in another context. Surely, he'd seen Steve's handwriting a lot in his life. If they'd grown up together the way Steve and the exhibit at the Smithsonian and all of the books and articles he'd scoured over the last few months had claimed, they probably would have learned their letters at the same time, or close to it. They would have practiced cursive together, learned to read together. Would have passed notes in school, traded study papers or done the other's homework, and gone over mission reports together during the War. Maybe even written each other letters, since he'd enlisted first and had been deployed overseas before Steve. But there was nothing but a blank where those memories should be. Nothing about Steve's writing was familiar to him.

The paper started to crumple in his fist and he deliberately smoothed it out. Getting frustrated would do him no good. He'd figured that out months ago, too. Had left behind a trail of broken furniture and broken bones before he'd learned to exert better control of himself and his new-found emotions.

He put the paper back in his jacket pocket – the one on the inside, the best protected one – and found the burner phone in his backpack. It only took a few taps to send the first text:

_Made your move yet?_

The reply was almost immediate: _Made it 10 seconds after you walked out the door. Pawn to E5_.

He smiled to himself, pictured the chessboard in his mind's eye. Steve was employing the Schliemann defense – a good counter strategy. A classic, even. But far too predictable. Beneath a man like Steve Rogers, with his enhanced intellect and superior critical thinking skills. Perhaps no one in Steve's life these days knew how to play chess. Perhaps Steve hadn't played in awhile. Which would be a shame, if true. Captain America was supposed to be a brilliant tactician. Chess was a excellent tool for keeping those skills sharp.

 _I expected better from you. Knight to F3_ , he typed, and shut off the phone. Despite the encryption he had on his own device, he didn't trust Steve's phone not to be tapped in some manner. Careless of him – he should have looked it over before they'd gone their separate ways. Maybe he could hack into it remotely, make a few tweaks to make it more secure.

It wasn't much, but it was at least some small way to keep Steve safe. He didn't question why that need was so ingrained inside him. 

***

When he walked out of the station after paying for his gas, he came to an immediate halt. Four men, dressed in leather and with patches that proclaimed their allegiance to an MC, were standing much too close to Steve's bike. 

He did a quick threat assessment – the two bigger men were packing Glocks on their hips and not bothering to be subtle about it. The other two had knives and one had a .38 shoved in the back of his pants. Again, not subtle.

It would take three moves and under fifteen seconds to take them all out from where he was standing right now. Non-lethal measures. 

He didn't move any closer. He had his Springfield .45 at his back and a knife sheathed under the sleeve of his jacket, plus a few other surprises, just in case any credible threat really was waiting in the wings. He wouldn't use any of the weapons unless he had to, and certainly not against anyone as untrained as this group.

He had no wish to hurt anyone. But they needed to step away from Steve's bike.

Then one of the men looked at him and grinned, all gold fillings and malice. "This pretty lady yours?"

"A friend's," he replied. Which wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't relevant to the situation. Steve was someone he trusted. Someone who trusted _him_. Someone who'd trusted him with a prized possession. _I expect to get the bike back at some point._ He wouldn't betray that trust, not for any reason. "You're standing too close to it."

One of the other men pointed at the bike – he had a dagger and skull tattoo snaking down his right arm. "Just admiring her lines is all. No need to get agitated."

He wasn't agitated. Agitation implied nerves, and this wasn't nervousness. But that was also not relevant to the situation. "You need to move. Now."

"Not real friendly, are you," the third – skinny, with slicked-back hair, said. "You should be more polite."

"Why?" he asked, without moving. "You aren't."

"Huh. We got ourselves a real comedian," Tattoo said to the fourth – younger than the others, had a Prospect patch on his leather jacket. "Thinks he's funny."

"Man who disrespects other people like that doesn't deserve such a pretty ride," Gold-teeth said.

"I'm thinking we should keep it for your – friend, did you say?" Skinny asked. "Be a shame if anything was to happen to it."

Every sense – already on high alert – went into Asset mode. His vision and hearing sharpened, his hands were loose and ready, his stance perfectly balanced. The perfect weapon, waiting to strike.

"Don't make me do this," he said. A warning. An echo.

_Please don't make me do this, Buck._

"Don't think you're in much position to demand anything," Gold-teeth replied.

"You really should learn some manners," Tattoo added, with a malicious grin. "Guess it's up to us to school you." He made a move to grab the handlebars of Steve's bike. 

It was all the opening he needed. 

In one explosion of movement, he swept the legs out from under Tattoo and kicked his jaw hard enough to put him out, jammed an elbow to Skinny's trachea, sending him, gasping and choking, to his knees, punched Gold-teeth (the biggest threat, such as it was) hard enough he dropped like a stone, and had his blade to Prospect's throat before the kid could draw a breath to scream.

Sixteen seconds, four moves. He was getting sloppy.

Prospect's eyes were wide and fearful. He was taking very shallow breaths. Sweat beaded along his temples. "Please –"

"Shut up." Casually delivered. He tightened the blade a fraction, the edge of it almost piercing vulnerable skin. "If you or any of your friends try to follow me, I'll kill every one of you before you see me move. Understood?"

Prospect's hand bobbed once, quick and short.

"Good." He stepped back, slipped the knife back in its sheath under the sleeve of his jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your day," he said, with a small smirk.

He swung a leg over the bike, started it, and drove off. He left four broken and crumpled – but still breathing – bodies behind him.

***

He was still riding the sharp edge of adrenaline and hyper-awareness a hundred miles down the road. Every muscle was tense, on alert for any danger, ready to contain and control the situation, whatever it was. He couldn't keep up this level of focus indefinitely. Even with all of his training and his skill set, he would still reach a maximum threshold. He needed a place to blow off some steam. Someplace safe, or relatively safe. Somewhere he wouldn't hurt anyone.

The gun range–slash–ammo shop was tucked off the highway, the parking lot cracked from the unrelenting heat of the sun, the signs in the window faded and dusty. 

The bell above the door jingled when he walked inside. He was the only patron in the store and, judging from the unkempt look of the place and the haphazard display of the contents on the shelves, it didn't look like the owner or manager cared too much about attracting new business. Perhaps this wasn't the best choice of venue. Then, an older, stooped man in a faded green ball cap stepped in from the back room and gave a friendly wave.

"'Lo there. Can I help you?"

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the parking lot. "The sign out front said you had a gun range."

"That we do. It's twenty an hour and you pay for your own ammo. You got a gun of your own or were you looking to buy one? We got some semi-automatics for rent, if you wanted."

He thought about asking for an AK or a CAR-15, but ultimately shook his head. He needed to refamiliarize himself with the idiosyncrasies of his handgun, and this was the perfect opportunity. "My own's fine."

"Suit yerself. What're you using?"

".45. A Springfield XD," he elaborated, after a moment.

"M'kay." The old man nodded again. "Name's Ed. I run the place. You gotta name, son?"

"Barnes." It was a common enough last name, and he'd been making a conscious effort the last month or so to try to use it more often. To start reclaiming _something_ of who he used to be. An identity – a name – was important.

Ed made a thoughtful noise. "C'mon, the range is out back," he said, and didn't ask any other questions. He didn't even ask for an ID. Just unlocked one of the display cases and grabbed two boxes of ammo. The lack of concern for security was appalling, but also welcome. The less of a paper trail or electronic trail he left, the happier he was. 

Barnes followed Ed through the store and outside to an immaculately maintained shooting range. This was, apparently, the real draw. Various targets – including metal gongs, bifurcated bullseyes, ducks and paper targets – were set up at 100, 200, 500, 1000, 1500, and 2000 yards. He nodded approvingly. This would do just fine.

Ed gestured at the lanes. "Pick your poison."

Barnes pointed at the 1000 yard target. "I'll start there, then move around, if it's all the same to you."

"If someone else wants a crack, you gotta share the lanes, but until then, knock yourself out."

"Thanks." He had six mags already loaded, and quickly filled another four – just to give him something to start with – then picked up the gun in his left hand. The heft and weight of the weapon felt, as it always did, like an extension of his arm. Which was what his arm was designed for, after all. To be an instrument of war. 

Ed let out a low, admiring whistle upon seeing it. "Fancy hardware," he remarked. "Stark's?"

"No," he answered, but didn't elaborate. Curt, but not rude. 

Ed nodded like he understood, and gestured at the spare mags. "Want me to refill 'em for you?"

"Sure. That would be...nice. Thank you," he added, belatedly.

He checked his sights, flicked off the safety, turned towards the targets, and got to work. Tuned out every distraction, focused every sense on the gun in his hand and the pull of the trigger and taking his shots. A sense of calm swept over him, of inner stillness. The only sound was the firing of the gun and the sharp ping every time he scored a hit. His breathing and heart beat slowed, his feet moved silently, his entire body a long, lean line moving with a single purpose.

The sun was a lot higher in the sky, beating down mercilessly on faded, brittle grass, when Barnes emptied the last magazine and called it a day. The temperature had to have risen at least fifteen degrees, but he was barely even sweating.

"Damn, son," Ed whistled from behind him, low and impressed. "Don't think I've ever seen shooting like that, and we've got some ex-special forces guys come in here pretty damn near every weekend showing off."

Barnes returned to the counter where Ed was standing, and started breaking down the gun to clean it with quick, economical movements. "Thanks," he offered. Politeness was important. Conversation was important. (It had been so much easier with Steve.)

"Were you in the military?"

"Yes," he replied, because it was easier to go along with the expectation the old man already had of him. Besides, it was partially true. James Buchanan Barnes _had_ been in the military. A sergeant in the Army. Had a plaque dedicated to him at the Smithsonian and medals in his name and everything.

"Well, thank you for your service," Ed said, knocking his beat up hat high on his forehead. An echo of what the nice lady at the diner had said the previous night. "I can honestly say it's been a real honor watching you shoot."

He had no idea what to say to that, so he said nothing, just finished cleaning the gun, then put it back together. "How much?" he asked.

"Military gets a ten percent discount, and I'm gonna give you another ten, just for the show."

"I...thank you," Barnes replied, and followed Ed back inside the store. It only took him a minute to pay for his time and the ammo and stroll out to the bike. He felt calmer already. Not quite as on edge. And when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it back on, he had a message from Steve.

_Make sure you stay safe out there. I'd hate for anything to happen to my bike._

He smiled, and was still smiling when he typed out his reply: _What makes you think I'm giving it back?_

The teasing felt right. Like slipping into an old, worn coat. Like he'd felt earlier with the .45 in his hands and a target in his sights. This was familiar, even if he couldn't explain _why_. This was good.

He straddled the bike and started it. It rumbled under him, pure torque and power, barely leashed. Maybe he'd open the throttle a little, push the limits a bit. If he pressed, he could still make the border by nightfall. 

***

_"Private Barnes, a word."_

_Bucky came to an immediate halt and stood at parade rest, shoulders straight, feet planted. "Sir."_

_The sergeant – his patch said McDougall, but he wasn't in Bucky's unit – peered down at him from under the brim of his hat. "Noticed you during target practice just now," he drawled, and waved his cigar stub between two beefy fingers. "Got yourself a real good eye there."_

_Bucky wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, so he went with the default that had been drummed into him the last four weeks of Basic: "Yessir. Thank you, sir."_

_"You've handled a rifle before you got here, I take it?"_

_"Yessir. My father taught me and my best friend how to shoot with his Springfield 1903," Bucky replied, allowing himself to marginally relax. "Brought it home with him from the Great War, sir."_

_"I see." The sergeant nodded again, then dropped his cigar under his boot and ground it out. Waste of a good stogie, not that anyone was asking Bucky's opinion. "No other training? Not a hunter or trapper?"_

_Bucky shook his head, trying not to let his frown show. "No sir, nothing like that. I'm from Brooklyn, sir," he supplied, because he thought maybe it might be relevant somehow._

_"Private, are you aware that you hit a thousand yard target five times in a row dead center?"_

_"Sir?" Once again, Bucky had no idea what to say. Was he supposed to say thank you? Apologize? Where the hell was his CO when he actually _needed_ the obnoxious bastard?_

_McDougall sighed like he was disappointed in Bucky's lack of answer somehow, then clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "What I'm trying to say, Private, is you're a fucking natural with a rifle. Your aim and accuracy is the best I've seen in all my years of service, and I'm a career man. You'd be wasting those talents of yours on the front lines as cannon fodder."_

_Cannon fodder. It took everything in him not to flinch, but he held steady, met the sergeant's eyes with a composed look. "I just want to serve my country and keep her safe, sir."_

_"I know, son, we all wanna kick Hitler's ass back to the Stone Age." McDougall clapped him on the arm again, then stepped back. "And the Soviets ain't the only ones with sharpshooters they can train. Lemme make a couple of calls, see about getting you into a different unit. The 107th has a sniper detail, and if you pass muster, there might even be another stripe or two in it for you."_

_"Yessir," Bucky replied, and tried to quell the butterflies in his stomach. The 107th. Steve was going to shit bricks._

***

"You're joking, right."

Natasha said it flatly, no trace of emotion on her face. But Steve could read her a little better now, after years of working alongside her in close proximity. He knew what micro-expressions to look for, knew the tiny ways she let down her guard around the people she trusted.

"Deadly serious," he replied, and scooted forward on the sofa. There were empty take-out containers on the coffee table between them, and a mostly empty bottle of wine. It had taken considerable effort on his part to wait until they'd eaten, had caught up with what she'd been doing the last few weeks, before making his request.

She tucked a lock of flyaway hair behind her ear. "Steve, I can't _teach_ you how to be a spy. That takes years of training and lessons and a certain aptitude that you, quite frankly, don't have."

"Try me," he replied, implacable. He wouldn't back down from this. It was too important. If Nat refused to help, well, he'd just go down the list until he found someone who would be willing. "And I don't need to know everything you know. Just enough to take down Hydra and anyone who worked for them."

"Is that all?" she snorted. "And you're planning on doing this all by yourself?"

"Yes." He wasn't going to ask anyone else to do this with him. It was his responsibility alone and his duty alone to make this right. This was _his_ mission.

"This is an organization that spent decades hiding in plain sight, preying on people without them even being aware of it," she said. "And you think you'll be able to waltz right in and, do what, exactly?"

"Take them down. They're exposed now," Steve said. "We have names and documents and bases – plenty to start with. I've worked with far less intel in the past." And had succeeded, he didn't add, because he knew he didn't need to.

"Teaching you what you'd need to know to take all of them down would take years," she reiterated.

He grinned, deliberately wide and sunny, because he knew it would get a reaction. "You have a week."

" _Steve_ –"

"I'm a quick study. Just teach me the basics."

She set down her wine glass, leaned in. Set a cool hand over his, her eyes wide with compassion and a terrible sort of knowledge. "If you do this, you'll have to leave the shield, the uniform, everything and anything Captain America related, behind. Are you willing to do that?"

He thought about the last time he'd seen Peggy, how fragile she'd looked, how fiercely proud he was of everything she’d accomplished, the lives she'd saved and all the good she'd done – all of it tainted with Hydra's brush. He thought about Bucky in that too-small motel room back in Texas, the tears in his eyes as he'd looked at the sketch of a woman he didn't even remember, the small smile on his face at the diner when he'd recalled his love of Winny's apple pie. 

The pained, guilty look on Bucky's face still haunted Steve's dreams. _I have no interest in harming anyone._

_You won't have to, Buck_ , Steve silently vowed. _I'll do it for you._

"I'm sure," he replied, putting as much conviction into the words as he knew how. "Whatever I need to be, I'll do it."

"What will you do for gear, for recon, for weapons?"

Practical questions, which meant she was giving it serious thought. He could work with that. "Stark," he said, and hoped she wouldn't press for too many details. 

She nodded once, impressed. "Smart," she said, then got to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion. "Come on."

He stood, obeyed the order without question. "Where are we going?" _Is this a test?_

She smiled, full-lipped. Amused. "Starting your training," she said, then nodded at the containers on the table. "Delivery or pick-up?"

He followed her gaze, and frowned. "Um. Pick-up. Why?"

"How often do you go there?"

"Couple of times a week." He wasn't much for cooking, never had been. Sure, he could get by in the kitchen if he needed to, but the beauty of this modern age meant he _didn't_ have to.

"Good." She looked pleased. "Were you wearing what you're wearing now when you placed your order?"

He glanced down. Jeans and a light blue tee. "Yeah. I was."

Once again, she smiled. "How many blocks away is it?"

"Two."

"Perfect," she stated. "You're going to go back and place another order."

His frown deepened. "I am?" 

"Yes."

"What's the catch?"

"They can't know it's you."

"How –?" He snapped his jaw shut. It wouldn't do any good to ask. This _was_ a test. To see if he'd been paying attention to her all these years. If he'd learned anything from her about blending in, making himself invisible. If he could turn off Captain America long enough that no one would recognize him, one of the most recognizable men on the planet.

"Okay," he said. Then gestured at his clothes. "I can't change?"

She shook her head. "You have two blocks to find what you need. You won't always have time to change clothes or use anything except what's around you."

Which meant stealing if he needed to, or grifting, or employing any other method at his disposal. "Okay." He could do this. 

"How much did you weigh?" she asked, gesturing at him. "Before the serum. How tall were you?"

"Uh...5'4, weighed a buck ten if I was lucky. Why?"

"It means you have an advantage. You already know how to become someone else."

Good point. Once again, his estimation of her grew. "Time?" he asked.

"Ten minutes from now," she told him, and pointed him towards the door.

Ten minutes. He could do this. There were two bodegas and two news/tourist stands between his place and the restaurant. Swiping a baseball hat would be easy enough – it had been a long time since he'd had to lift anything, but he remembered his childhood well enough, and how sometimes, stealing an apple or a head of cabbage had been the difference between eating that day and going to bed hungry. He'd never been particularly proud of it, and he'd certainly never confessed those sins to his mother (nor to his parish priest), but Steve was, above everything else in the world, a survivor. 

He worked on hitching his gait, hunching his shoulders, making himself _smaller_ , as he headed down the stairs of his building to the sidewalk outside. Worked on scrunching his toes a bit to change his stride, messed his hair so it didn't fall so neatly in line, schooled his face so it lost some of the authority it always seemed to hold these days. Cast his eyes down, sped his breathing, let muscle and body memory take over. He'd spent a helluva lot more years being sickly and small than he had being Captain America, and he could use that to his advantage.

As he suspected, swiping an _I heart NY_ hat from the newsstand was no problem, and not a single person paid him any attention when he lifted a hoodie from the back of a chair at the sidewalk café a half block from the restaurant. He shrugged into it – it was a little tight, but used the ill fit to his advantage.

He had no doubts Natasha was somewhere nearby, just out of sight. Watching. Observing. Grading. He knew she'd have notes, suggestions, would point out things he'd missed, avenues he should have explored, and strategies that would have given him more of an edge. Practical tips he could use and build on until he could do this to her satisfaction.

But he couldn't help the feeling of pride when he walked out of Wang’s exactly ten minutes later with an order of orange chicken in a to-go bag. And without a single person either on the way or behind the counter recognizing him.

"Not bad," Natasha commented, appearing as if by magic beside him.

He handed her the bag. He'd ordered her favorite dish on purpose. "Pointers?"

"Oh, I've got plenty." She hooked her arm in his, leaned against him like they were on a stroll after a date. "Let's take a walk and I'll tell you all about them."

***


	4. (Part IV – "The Man With The Plan")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All translations for this part are embedded and also in the notes at the end of the chapter.

_(Torreón, Coahuila, Mexico)_

The plaza at _La Fuente del Pensador_ hadn't changed much since the last time Barnes was here. There were a lot more in the way of tourists these days, but the park itself still looked the same. He wandered along the cobblestone walkways, snapped a few photos with his phone to keep up appearances – just another tourist enjoying the view and taking a few shots to make his friends back home jealous – but his thoughts were on a warm spring evening in 1958. 

The target had been a Lebanese professor – only a level four, but the Winter Soldier had already been deployed in the area training some elite Hydra troops. His handlers had thought the kill would be a nice present for their favorite assassin. It had taken him all of a day to assess the good professor's routine, and an hour to assemble the car bomb and then install it. He'd even given himself the challenge of putting the bomb in the car in broad daylight and still hadn't been detected. 

Had that breach of accepted protocol been why his handlers had put him on ice for the next three years? To punish him for giving _himself_ a directive, for creating his own set of challenges to keep from getting bored? It wouldn't surprise him, really. Hydra's number one mantra had always been compliance. Compliance and duty, by whatever means necessary. Which still begged the question of why they kept going through all the trouble of using him and then wiping his memories. Even as good as he was as the Winter Soldier – and he had been, and still was, without equal – maybe two or three of his kills were honestly complex enough to warrant someone with his skillset. Hardly worth all the expense and manpower to keep him alive and active and engaged and trained.

It had to have had something to do with his connection to Steve. Even if he'd been a ghost story, a boogeyman to keep Hydra's allies and enemies both on their best behavior, knowing they had Captain America's best friend doing their dirty work had to be a particular thrill for the inner sanctum. Especially for Zola in the early days. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the Winter Soldier had been deployed a lot more when Zola was alive, and then used only sparingly in the decades after his death.

He turned from the fountain and was heading back to the bike when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a girl on a bright purple bicycle careening into the path of an oncoming truck. His feet were moving before he was consciously aware of his actions, legs pumping as he raced out into the street. He snatched the girl up in his arms and rolled out of the way just as the truck plowed into the bicycle over the squeal of tires as the driver futilely hit the brakes. 

The sickening sound of metal on metal pierced his ears. Against his chest, he felt the hummingbird-fast beat of the girl's heart against his own. Felt soft, hiccupping breaths against his neck. 

" _Estás a salvo_ ," he crooned, smoothing back tangled, black hair. " _Estás a salvo_."

Liquid brown eyes met his, lashes wet with tears, then small arms wrapped tight around his neck. She sobbed against him, and he just held her close as he made his way to the sidewalk and sat on the curb. The driver was out of the truck and rushing over, his face white and horrified, and the girl's mother, maybe, or sister or aunt, was hot on his heels.

" _Está bien_ ," he assured them. He kept running a soothing hand along the girl's spine, crooned encouragement. " _No está herida_." 

" _Gracias a Dios._ " The mother or sister or aunt held out her arms – a wordless plea – and the girl all but fell into them with a plaintive cry of "Mamá!" Mother then. Now that he could think clearly, the immediate family resemblance was clear. Safe now in her mother's arms, the girl started crying anew; great, loud sobs that shook her small frame. Shock and relief, most likely.

" _Ni siquiera la he visto. Ha aparecido de pronto._ " The driver looked shell-shocked. He pulled his hat off his head and ran shaking fingers through thinning hair. " _Gracias. No sé lo que habría hecho si yo…"_

" _Está bien. ¿Ves? Está bien._ " Barnes didn't know what to do with his hands. His legs felt like rubber. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

"Señor." He looked up when a shadow crossed his path. The mother was standing above him, the girl still clinging limpet-tight to her neck. " _No sé cómo darle las gracias."_

" _Cualquiera habría hecho lo mismo_ ," he replied, even though he was pretty sure no one else on the planet could have gotten to her in time. Steve, maybe.

" _¿Está bien, señor?_ "

He stared at her, uncomprehending. Then she pointed at his face, and that was when he realized he was bleeding sluggishly from a rather large scrape on his forehead. He'd also lost his ball cap. It was lying forlornly in the street next to the ruined purple wreck that was the girl's bicycle.

" _No es nada_." He couldn't even feel it. Such trivial pain wasn't even worth commenting on.

But he felt a different sort of pain altogether when the girl lifted her head and gave him a shy, watery, gap-toothed smile. In it, he saw a flash of another smile on another little girl, one with the same dark hair but with bright blue eyes that matched his own. The image was there and gone so fast he felt dizzy with it.

" _Por favor_ ," the mother was saying. " _Déjeme invitarle a comer, o puedo ofrecerle alojamiento_ –"

" _No es necesario_ ," he interrupted, and patted at the injury. His fingers came away copper red. He'd need to clean himself up before he got back on the road. He got to his feet, other minor aches making themselves known. He ignored those as well. 

"Señor." The woman was standing in front of him now, her gaze kind, but firm. The stare of a mother who wouldn't take no for an answer. " _Tiene que dejarme que se lo agradezca. Ella es todo lo que tengo en la vida_."

She barely came up to his shoulder, and probably weighed half what he did. But she had the sort of stance that screamed stubborn to the core, and the girl was still smiling up at him from behind that tangle of dark hair. Suddenly, it seemed churlish to refuse whatever thanks they wanted to offer.

_Kindness costs nothing to give, and its rewards are tenfold. Always remember that, darling._

" _De acuerdo_ ," he said, and swiped his hat from the road. Then he picked up the ruins of the bike, clearing it out as well. " _Me vendría bien poder asearme un poco_."

 

Her house was a modest one-bedroom, housed her mother and aunt, in addition to herself and her daughter. It was tiny, bordering on a hovel, but it was spotlessly clean, and had cheerful, colorful decorations on the walls and well-cared for furniture. He was gently pushed into the seat at the head of the table in the small kitchen, and fussed over by what felt like an endless stream of chattering, sympathetic women who seemed to come out of the woodwork. He was patched up in record time, and someone – maybe the aunt – had urged him into a change of clothes so she could wash up the ones he'd been wearing. Then he was plied with enough food to feed a veritable army – homemade _tamales_ and _chilaquiles_ and _panza de res en verde_ and _mole verde de Zacapala_ – with the girl climbing into his lap halfway through the meal to fall asleep against his chest. And, as the high-pitched, bright chatter of the women rose and fell around him, punctuated by laughter and fond smiles in his direction, he couldn't help but feel, for the first time since he'd come back into himself, that this felt like _home_.

***

_There would be consequences for his actions. For his failure to complete his mission. But the second he'd set foot into Grand Central Station, the urge to take the 5 Train south to the C Train was so overwhelming it blocked out all other mission parameters. Like this was an older mission, one predating anything his handlers had programmed into him._

_He got off on High Street and walked down Henry to Pierrepont and stopped just outside a nondescript brownstone, no different than all of the other brownstones on this block. But this one – 108 Pierrepont, with its bay windows and faded brown brick – called to him so strongly he wanted to walk up the stairs and go inside._

_He shouldn't be here. His mission was in Manhattan, not Brooklyn._

_"Excuse me, mister?"_

_He glanced down at the tugging on his jacket to see the upturned face of a preteen girl, bundled in a bright green coat and pink scarf and hat, with a little red pom-pom bouncing merrily on top. Under it, dark curly hair spilled down her back._

__"You boys keep those hats and scarves on, y'hear me?" "Yes ma'am." __

_She wasn't part of the mission. He didn't have a mission here. "Yes?"_

_"You look just like my Uncle Bucky," she informed him, looking at him out of grey eyes that seemed much too large for her face. "There's a picture of him up on the mantel, so we never forget. Mom says he and Uncle Steve were heroes. They died a long time ago, but Mom says they still live on in us."_

_He wondered why she was telling him this. Wondered why she looked so familiar. He blinked down at her and said nothing._

_Unconcerned with his silence, she turned and pointed at a nearby snowdrift, where a smaller figure, also bundled against the cold, was lying in the snow and waving his legs and arms back and forth. "My little brother's named for them. Grant Buchanan. I'm named after Uncle Steve's mom, great-aunt Sarah."_

_Grant. Buchanan. Sarah. The names also sounded familiar. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather swept over his skin._

_A door down the street opened. He turned, alert, knife at the ready._

_"Sarah, Grant, dinner!!"_

_The boy scrambled up and let out a whoop. "Sarah, come onnnn!!" he called, in a high-pitched voice. "Mom promised we could have pizza_ and _cocoa with marshmallows!!"_

 _She shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the promise of either. "Well, I guess I gotta go before my brother gets even_ more _annoying. It was nice meeting you, mister."_

 _He stood where he was until she and her brother went inside and the front door closed behind them._

***

_(Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico)_

Arturo Beltrán Leyva had made the grave mistake of siphoning cartel money earmarked for Hydra into his own personal coffers. An example of the bloodiest order had needed to be made and, even though Leyva had been paranoid and extra vigilant about his security, neither he nor his men were a match for the Winter Soldier. He'd spent two days torturing Leyva on orders for his arrogance and hubris, then slit his throat and dumped his body in a ditch just outside the city limits for the Policía Federal to find. 

His handlers had made sure the cartel knew exactly what had happened to him, and what the price was for theft. 

Torturing targets wasn't something the Winter Soldier was normally called upon to do – most of the time, Rumlow and his Strike Team handled that aspect of an op – but he'd excelled at it. Pleas, bribes, cries for mercy...none of it registered. Once he was given a job, he completed it without fail. All collateral deaths or damage were acceptable if it meant the mission was a success. The last seven decades – longer than the span of his own parents' lives – were filled with death and destruction and chaos of the highest order. Toppling infrastructures and governments and any opposition to Hydra's World Order, without complaint or question or defiance.

Until Steve. Rebellious, questioning, insubordinate Steve, who'd tossed aside every rule of engagement in the books in order to break through that seventy years of programming and brainwashing. 

He remembered – a flash, really, a fragment – of a much smaller Steve standing rebellious and bloodied, fists raised, stubborn chin jutting out as he took on bullies twice his size. Incapable of backing down or running. He'd always been so proud of Steve for that. For never turning tail, no matter how hopeless the odds.

Science may have created Captain America, but Steve Rogers had been a superhero his entire life. And that same science had turned Steve's best friend into the biggest bully of them all. The same best friend who, if all reports and accounts and his own imperfect and fractured memory could be believed, had stood side by side with Steve and fought against those same bullies and injustices. That was who he used to be – someone who'd once stood for truth and honor and righting the wrongs of the world.

Until Zola and Hydra had corrupted him from the inside out.

When he'd first started shaking off the programming and regaining his sense of autonomy and self, he wondered if there had been something fundamentally broken in him that had allowed Hydra to sink its claws into him. But the more he read about Hydra's methods and means of brainwashing their victims, he realized it wouldn't have mattered who he was or how strong his will was or how solid his moral center was. Steve himself couldn't have counteracted the programming. Eventually, everyone succumbed. Everyone complied.

Barnes walked out of the empty warehouse where he and Levya had spent Levya's last hours, and squinted when bright sunlight hit him. Across the street, there was a farmers' market taking place in the plaza square. There were booths with beautifully hand-crafted wares and tempting arrays of food. The chatter from the shoppers was noisy and friendly, a far cry from the dark thoughts in his own head. Competing scents of grilled meat and baked _bolillos_ wafted in the air and, for just a moment, he could clearly picture a cozy, sunlit kitchen, with a slim, dark-haired woman standing over a stove, a taller dark-haired man standing behind her, arms wrapped loose around her waist. He could _almost_ make out three young girls sitting around a table, their chatter musical, like birdsong, and beside him, laughing over something long forgotten, a pre-adolescent Steve.

Longing swept over him, an ache so sharp it pierced right through to his very core. He'd had laughter in his life once. Security, love, a family.

His fingers felt thick as he fumbled for his phone, his hand trembling as he held it up to his ear. It only rang once before it was answered.

"Buck, is that you?" Steve sounded slightly out of breath. 

"Hey, Steve." He gripped the phone tighter, a hard knot lodged in his throat. He had no idea why he'd called. Had just obeyed the impulse the same way he used to obey orders.

"Hey," Steve replied. "You – are you okay? Is everything...?"

Mercifully, the knot loosened enough for him to be able to reply. "I'm fine. I just..." _I'm mourning something I can barely remember, I miss people I can barely recall, I want –_ "...I just needed to hear a friendly voice, I think," he finished, inwardly cursing himself for the weakness. 

Reminded himself it was okay to have them now.

"Oh." Steve's voice softened. "Well, I'm always available for that. Do you need me to confirm anything or tell you anything or...?"

He walked over to one of the empty park benches and sat down. Tilted his face up to the sun and tried to forget, just for a moment, Leyva's pitiful screams. "Just talk to me," he said. "Tell me what you're doing right now, tell me a memory from our childhood, I don't care."

"Well." Steve paused, then let out a soft laugh. "I'm running an errand for Natasha right now – it's a long story – but I took a shortcut through Prospect Park, and I have to admit, it hasn't changed all that much since we were kids. I mean, it looks like it's better run now, and there are a few more statues and monuments and all that, but some of the old buildings are gone, like the Grove House and the dairy farm... We used to play stickball here after school. And have picnics here after church during the summer."

"Sounds real nice," he said. He could hear the echo of boyish laughter, the cheers and good-natured taunts, the crack of the bat and a ball falling perfectly into a glove. "Were we any good? At stickball?"

"You were," Steve chuckled. "I was terrible; either I struck out or hit it into the lake, no in between. But you...you always had a real nice swing. And you could field well, too. You were a natural athlete."

His files – and the plaque at the Smithsonian – had said as much. But it was nice to have the confirmation from someone who'd been there to see it in person. "I bet you were better than you thought," he said. "You were always so hard on yourself."

"Figures you'd remember _that_ ," Steve commented, his voice a familiar-sounding mixture of fondness and exasperation.

"That doesn't take a genius to figure out, you know." He blinked the sunspots from his eyes, blinked the world back into focus. Everything seemed a little more radiant now, the shadows retreating to the corners where they belonged.

"Guess not," Steve said, then, a little quieter: "You sound better."

"Yeah, thanks. I...I feel better." Had Steve always been this good at reading his moods simply from his tone? "Oh, can you do something for me?"

"Yeah, of course. Anything, you know that."

"Tell whoever designed the encryption on your phone, they did a credible job."

"Uh...okay?" Then Steve let out a surprised laugh. "Wait, are you telling me you tried to break into it?"

"I had to make sure the line was secure," he replied, with a shrug. He wouldn't apologize for it, either. If this was to be his main avenue for communicating with Steve for the foreseeable future, he had to make sure their conversations couldn't be hacked or traced.

"I'd call you paranoid, but I guess there really _are_ people out to get you, so..."

"Not just me." A pointed reminder. Pierce might be dead, but there were still plenty of people who wanted Steve Rogers' head on a plate.

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can." This, too, sounded like a well-worn refrain. "And since I have you here, Bishop to A4."

"Bold move, I like it," Steve replied, approvingly. "I might actually need a minute to consider my options."

"Take your time," he said. "Oh, and Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?"

"I don't know if I ever told you this, but...you were always an inspiration. Even before the serum." He couldn't say why it was so important he let Steve know this, or even why he felt it, but this was another truth he _knew_ deep in his bones. 

Steve let out a small noise, then went quiet for the longest time, his shallow breaths the only indication he was still on the line. "I...I don't know what to say right now," he murmured, in a thick voice. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Barnes replied, and disconnected the line. He'd had vague plans of making it up to Guadalajara by nightfall – there'd been a unionizer making the wrong kinds of waves who Pierce had wanted to disappear – but instead, he got to his feet and headed towards the farmers' market. It was too pretty of an afternoon for thinking about the dark days of his past. 

***

Steve and Tony would never be bosom buddies, but they were friends in their own fashion. They'd shed blood for each other, had killed for each other, and that wasn't a bond easily severed. Hopefully Tony would see it the same way. Which was why, when Steve walked into Tony's lab at Avengers Tower with a list of needed supplies folded in his back pocket, he hoped Tony would be as easy to persuade as Natasha had been. 

"Cap, this is a surprise." Tony waved Steve over to his bench. "Come tell me what you think of my latest baby."

Steve stepped up to the hologram, circled the armor. Very thin, lightweight, compact. Looked liked it would breathe well. "It's nice. What's it made out of?"

"See, this is why I like you," Tony said, and pulled up another 3-D display. "Not to get too technical, since I know that sort of thing bores you, but it's a titanium alloy mixed with traces of adamantium and vibranium. Strong enough to stop any bullet, and light enough to wear under everyday clothes. Thought it'd be helpful for some of Natasha's more...clandestine missions, let's say."

Undercover missions. This was almost too good to be true. "You tested it yet?" he asked, trying to mask his eagerness behind a wall of nonchalance. It was never a good idea to appear too eager in front of Tony. Howard had been the same way.

Tony grinned, wide and wolfish. "Why, sweetheart, I thought you'd never ask."

Five minutes later, Steve was in the armor and running drills, ducking bullets with ease and going through simulation after simulation. The armor held up beautifully, even under the heaviest stress. It also molded perfectly to his body, almost completely undetectable under his clothes. And it deflected machine gun fire almost as well as his shield, which was saying something. 

"Verdict?" Tony asked, after Steve went through another run.

"Pinches just slightly in the torso when I'm doing my mid-air flip, but it's already better than my stealth suit," Steve said. "Which is kind of why I'm here."

Tony crossed his arms over his chest, all business. "You need an upgrade?"

Steve shook his head. "A downgrade, in fact. I'm...I'm going after Hydra. Me. Not Captain America," he added, and hoped he wouldn't have to explain further than that.

Tony's lips pursed, but he nodded. "Yeah, okay, I feel what you're saying. You can't go in after these guys with guns blazing and the star on your chest. They'd see you coming from ten miles away, and we already know they're very good at going _poof_." He blew on his fingers in emphasis. "How were you planning on bringing them in, though? Once you have them in custody, I mean."

He wasn't. But the less Tony – the less _anyone_ – knew, the better. Plausible deniability. Let them think Steve was still on the side of the angels. (Everyone always forgot that God's favored angels were stone cold killers.) "I'll cross that bridge when I get there," he said, and pulled out the list he'd been compiling, and set it on the table. "I've been working with Natasha the last couple of days, and I need a few things. Think you can handle it?"

Tony picked up the piece of paper and perused it. Made a small noise as he stroked his goatee. "ETA?" he asked, when he finally looked up.

"Three days?" Steve guessed. He should be ready with everything else by then. As much as he was aching to get out in the field and get started, he knew he needed to have everything in place before he did.

"Next time do me a favor and give me a real challenge," Tony answered, with another small smile. "JARVIS, scan that for me, would you? Let's give the Captain some cool toys to play with."

"Certainly, sir."

Tony turned back to Steve. "You all up to speed on how to use all the stuff you're asking for? That list – what's on it – it's not exactly for beginners."

It wasn't meant as an insult, and Steve didn't take it as one. He knew he was asking for some very hi-tech equipment. Not exactly his area of expertise. "Like I said, Nat's been training me. I catch on fast."

"If Romanov thinks you're ready, who am I to dispute her?" Tony shrugged, then hooked an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Tell you what, I'll throw in the armor as a parting gift. You got any backup? Wilson, Romanov, Barton, do you need me to come with you? I'd have to run it by the missus, but I think I could give you a couple weeks, if you need them."

"Thanks, Tony, but I've got it covered." As much as he would like to have Tony's expertise, there was no way Tony could do any sort of undercover mission. He was easily ten times more famous than Steve. Besides, this mission was _his_. No one else's. "But maybe I could borrow JARVIS for intel?"

"Consider him yours," Tony replied. "On loan, of course, because I still need him here. But I'll install a software patch to your comms system and your phone that'll let you communicate with him if you need it."

This was beyond even what he'd hoped for. Having JARVIS as a resource would speed up the process a hundred times. Best of all, JARVIS wouldn't pass judgement on what he was doing. "Thanks," he answered, heartfelt. "I appreciate it. But, uh, I'll need a burner phone, in that case. One that only JARVIS has access to."

Bucky'd just done a security sweep of Steve's phone. There was no way Steve would betray that trust, not even if it meant going without JARVIS's assistance.

"You got it, buddy," Tony told him, and clapped him on the back. "And if you need anything else, let me know. We all want the bastards brought in."

Steve summoned a smile that felt only slightly fake. "I know."

_I'll make this right, Buck. Everyone goes. Everyone dies. If it takes me the rest of my life, it'll be a small price to pay._

***

That night at his apartment, when his phone buzzed, he all but pounced on it. Every time Bucky reached out to him, he could feel himself drift a little closer to shore. As long as Bucky was still out there, alive and well and working on his way towards becoming whole again, it meant Steve was doing the right thing. On the path of the righteous. 

"Have I stumped you already?" he joked, eschewing their normal greeting.

Bucky snorted out a familiar laugh. "Hardly. Your skills are laughable for someone who has a supposed superior intellect."

"Hey!" Steve protested, with his own laugh. "Maybe I'm just trying to lure you into a false sense of complacency."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night," Bucky replied. "Knight to E3. I have a question."

Knight to E3 – Bucky was still fond of his bold moves and unorthodox thinking. Fuck, how the hell did he still manage to have Steve playing on the defensive, even after all these years? He should be better at this, shouldn't he? Maybe he really _was_ getting rusty or complacent. "Yeah, I'm listening," he finally said, distracted.

"Did I teach you Polish?"

A surprised sound escaped him before he could choke it back. He sank against the couch cushions, trembling all over, unable to stop. The match was all but forgotten. 

Memories tumbled forth, one after another – old man Stachowski's corner deli, the taste of his special black forest ham on pumpernickel sandwiches, helping Bucky stock shelves and wipe counters after school when he was feeling well enough. Mrs. Stachowski's special chocolate covered _paczki_ , and how she'd sometimes slip a few extra coins into their pockets when her husband's back was turned. 

"Steve? You there?"

He took a shaky breath, tried to formulate a reply. "Yeah, sorry, I... Yes." When he scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers came away damp. "You used to work stocking shelves for Mr. Stachowski after school – he owned the local deli – and he and his wife taught you Polish, and you taught it to me." 

" _Stachowski? Tęgi facet, lubił nosić kratkę? Głośny śmiech_?"

A test. One he didn't mind answering. _Bucky_ , Steve thought, helpless, heart hurting. His breath was coming way too fast, a phantom echo of another lifetime. 

" _Tak, to on_ ," he answered, and pressed his hand over his chest. In one two three, out one two three. Repeated it until his lungs didn't feel quite as small. " _Pachniał kapustą i trocinami, i kochał cię jak syna. Jego własny syn zginął w Wielkiej Wojnie._ "

Everyone in the neighborhood had loved Bucky.

Bucky was silent for another moment. "Can you draw him for me?" he asked, switching back to English. "Is that okay?"

He could do that. Make a sketch and take a picture of it with his phone, send it over. Anything Bucky wanted. "Yeah, of course I can," he replied. "I keep telling you, alright, you don't have to _ask_ me for anything. Whatever you need, the answer is yes."

"Yeah, so you keep saying, but I know you got a life, alright. And responsibilities," Bucky said. "You might not have time. I'm not taking anything for granted here."

"I'd _make_ the time. This is important." Steve couldn't stress that enough. "You – there isn't anything more important to me than helping you, okay."

"Did we...did we know any other languages? Growing up? I've got so many rattling around in my head, and not all of them came from Hydra. Some of them feel...older."

"Well, the widow living across the hall from me and my mom was from Bavaria and she taught us some German," Steve said, trying to think. "Came in pretty useful during the War during certain missions. Sometimes...uh, because of my coloring, I mean –"

"You mean looking like an Aryan recruitment poster come to life?" Bucky asked, with a rueful chuckle that was also _Bucky_ all over.

"Yeah," Steve admitted, with his own laugh. "Anyway, sometimes I had to infiltrate certain Hydra facilities, and knowing German came in handy. Also came in handy when we had to interrogate prisoners."

"Interrogate or torture?" Bucky asked, softly.

"No, we never..." Steve sat straight up, clutched the phone tight. "Bucky, we never, alright. You were _never_...that's not you. That was never you."

"I don't wanna argue with you, but it was definitely me. Maybe not when I was with the Commandos, but, well."

Bucky sounded so defeated. Steve's heart lurched again. "They forced you to become someone you weren't. But that's _not_ who you are."

"Thanks." Bucky sighed. "I guess I needed the reminder today."

"That's what friends are for, right?"

"I guess so. I don't remember what being a friend is like."

Any lingering doubts Steve had about what he was getting ready to do died in an instant. _Everyone_ who had anything to do with Hydra, they would all feel his wrath. "Well, it _is_ what friends are for," he said. "And that's what we are. What we'll always be."

"I guess if me spending decades as an assassin for Hydra didn't convince you to run the other way, nothing would." Bucky said it like a joke, but Steve could tell he was serious.

"You put up with decades of me starting fights with every bully in Brooklyn and cleaning up after my messes, so let's just say I'm returning the favor."

Bucky may never remember, but Steve would never forget. And the debt he owed Bucky was one he could never repay, not if they both lived another century.

***

"You sure you don't need me to suit up and come with you?" Sam asked, as Steve made the turn at the conservatory to head out of Central Park. Steve had done five laps around the outer loop by the time Sam had called.

"Positive," Steve answered. There was a vendor selling pretzels and water, and he bought three of each before continuing down 5th towards Stark Tower. "You've done more than enough for me. Stay home, reclaim your life, rescue yourself for a change." 

Sam was far too good of a person, far too _decent_ , for Steve to want to involve him in this.

Sam's rich laughter floated in clearly through the line. "Man, I've _always_ been my own knight in shining armor. You just tell me when you're ready to take your own advice, alright?"

He polished off a pretzel and a bottle of water before answering. Around him, people hurried past, everyone with their own lives, their own agendas. Everyone focused on themselves and their own needs. The entire concept seemed alien.

"Steve, you still there?"

"Yeah. This...this _is_ my life," he finally said. "It's all I have."

"It really isn't, and the sooner you realize that, the better. But if this is something you're still hell bent on doing –"

"I need to do this. I couldn't live with myself knowing Hydra was still out there, just waiting to make another play for power."

"Fair enough," Sam replied. "Just make sure you're doing this for your own reasons, and not because it's something you think Barnes might want." 

"You know what I really miss sometimes?" Steve asked, but continued before Sam could answer. "Being small. Which is...Jesus, it's the worst fucking irony of all time, isn't it. Back when the only person who saw me was Bucky, the only thing I ever wanted was to be bigger. For the world to sit up and notice me. And right now, I'd give every bit of the serum back if it meant he would look at me again and _know_ me."

He'd give it all up just for Bucky to smile at him and _mean_ it the way he used to.

"Give him time, man. He'll get there, you'll see."

"Maybe." He gulped down the second pretzel in three bites and finished another bottle of water. "But I've got work to do in the meantime, and you said it yourself: I can't put my life on hold to wait for him to figure out who he is and what he wants."

"And _you_ know what I meant by that," Sam rejoined. Steve didn't need to see him to know he was rolling his eyes.

"I'm doing this because I want to." Which was the truth. "I promise I'll be careful." Which was a lie.

***

The next day found him in Stark's spacious gym facing Natasha like an eager student. She was dressed, like him, for comfort and maximum movement – gym shorts, tank top, hair pulled off her nape. They'd already been working on hand-to-hand for over an hour.

"You need to learn to fight with a knife." 

He'd been training with her long enough, and knew her well enough, not to hesitate in his movements, even for an instant. Just bobbed and weaved and moved, looking for an opening he could use, that split second when she let down her guard. "I know how to fight with a knife."

"You need to become as comfortable with it as you are with the shield," she said, and launched herself at him, twisting out of his hold to wrap strong thighs around his throat.

He slammed them both to the mat, used her momentary gasp and loosened hold to roll free, scramble back to his feet. "Teach me," was all he said. He wanted to learn everything.

Her eyes gleamed with pleasure as she stood. "And you need to learn how to fight with whatever's handy. You may not always have a weapon on you, or your weapon might get taken away from you."

"That I already know how to do," he answered. "Learned from the best, in fact."

"Oh?" 

"Peggy Carter. She was a master at using her surroundings and environment and whatever she could as a weapon." He didn't bother to keep the pride out of his voice, either. He'd loved her for a number of reasons, but her handiness in a brawl was maybe the second thing he'd fallen for. 

Natasha grinned. "You know, my regard for her just keeps growing."

"You have _no_ idea," he replied. Peggy hadn't taken it easy on him, either. Had busted his balls and his ass more times than he could count, used everything she could lay her hands on as a weapon, used surprise and misdirection to her advantage. She'd been an amazing teacher, and he'd been the most willing of students.

"Good. You can show me what you remember after we're done sparring." She nodded, then jerked her head at the boxing ring. "Now come on, we've got plenty of work to do."

"Yes ma'am."

***

_Steve wasn't the biggest kid even on his best day, but he looked frighteningly tiny, all still and pale, and with only his shock of white-blond hair peeking out from under the mound of quilts._

_Bucky peeked over at Mrs. Rogers, sitting by her son's bedside and humming a wordless tune. He recognized it as one of the Irish lullabies she sang to them sometimes. "He'll be okay, right?" he asked, trying to keep his voice quiet. He didn't want to wake Steve up. Not when he was finally resting._

_Mrs. Rogers smiled at him, soft and worn, and smoothed the hairs falling across his forehead. "You're a good friend, Bucky. Steve's blessed to have you."_

_Bucky thought it was the other way around really, but he just nodded. "But he'll be okay?" he repeated. His own folks looked all worried and sad, and the doctors coming in and out kept muttering to themselves and having hushed conversations with Mrs. Rogers, and Steve...well...he was always so full of energy and piss and vinegar, so seeing him so quiet was kinda scary, but if Mrs. Rogers said Steve was gonna be okay, then Bucky would believe it. Because Mrs. Rogers was just about the most honest and kindest person Bucky'd ever met._

_She bent to press a cool kiss to his brow. "All we can do now is pray," she told him. "The rest is up to Steve."_

_Well, that was alright, then. Because Bucky knew Steve better than anyone else in the world (including Mrs. Rogers), and he knew Steve would never in a million years let something like an illness or bad lungs or a weak heart or _nothing_ keep him from getting back up. Steve Rogers didn't have a lick of quit in him._

_"Okay," he said, because he could do that. He could add his voice to all the prayers Steve was undoubtedly getting. He joined his own hand to Mrs. Rogers', laid it over Steve's – he was still burning up, but Bucky thought maybe it wasn't as bad as it had been earlier – then gave Mrs. Rogers another smile and said he'd be back with a fresh glass of water for when Steve woke up._

_He closed the door to Steve's room with a soft click, and turned right smack into Becca, who immediately threw herself into his arms with a muffled sob. He held her easily, smoothed tangled hair. "Hey there, BB, what's all this?"_

_"St-Steve," she hiccupped, small and frightened, the word muffled by his shirt. "Mama w-was talking to D-doc –"_

_"He's gonna be fine," he stated, because Mrs. Rogers had said it was up to Steve, and Steve had promised Bucky they'd be best friends forever, and forever was still a long ways away. "You know how stubborn he is."_

_"But the doctor_ said _–"_

 _"Doc doesn't know everything," he interrupted, fierce and low. "You listen up good, alright. Steve's_ family _. And that means we're not giving up."_

_"Okay." She let out another shaky snuffle, then nodded. But she clung to his shirt with small fists, trembling still. "You promise?"_

_"I promise." He didn't even have to think about it. "As long as he's got us looking out for him, he'll be right as rain."_

_"Okay," she said again._

_He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Now go wash your face and sit down with him and Mrs. Rogers for a little bit, if you want. I'm sure he'll want to see your pretty face more than my ugly mug when he wakes up."_

_She giggled, watery but genuine, and leaned up to brush a quick kiss to his cheek before scampering off to the bathroom._

_"Don't you make me a liar, Steve Rogers," he whispered to the air. "Don't you dare even_ think _about it."_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Estás a salvo_ \- You're safe  
>  _Está bien_ \- She's okay  
>  _No está herida_ \- She's not hurt  
>  _Gracias a Dios_ \- Thank God.  
>  _Ni siquiera la he visto. Ha aparecido de pronto_ \- I didn't even see her. She came out of nowhere.  
>  _Gracias. No sé lo que habría hecho si yo…_ \- Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if I'd...  
>  _Está bien. ¿Ves? Está bien_ \- She's fine. See? She's fine.  
>  _No sé cómo darle las gracias_ \- I cannot thank you enough  
>  _Cualquiera habría hecho lo mismo_ \- Anyone would have done the same  
>  _¿Está bien, señor?_ \- Are you alright?  
>  _No es nada_ \- It's nothing  
>  _Por favor_ \- Please  
>  _Déjeme invitarle a comer, o puedo ofrecerle alojamiento_ \- Let me offer you a meal, a place to  
>  _No es necesario_ \- There's no need  
>  _Tiene que dejarme que se lo agradezca. Ella es todo lo que tengo en la vida_ \- You must let me do something. She's all I have.  
>  _De acuerdo_ \- Okay  
>  _Me vendría bien poder asearme un poco_ \- I could use a place to get washed up
> 
> ***
> 
>  _Stachowski? Tęgi facet, lubił nosić kratkę? Głośny śmiech_ \- Stachowski? Heavy-set guy, liked plaid? Loud laugh?  
>  _Tak, to on_ \- Yes, that was him  
>  _Pachniał kapustą i trocinami, i kochał cię jak syna. Jego własny syn zginął w Wielkiej Wojnie_ \- He smelled like cabbages and sawdust, and he loved you like a son. His own died in the Great War
> 
>  
> 
> All the thanks ever to [Viper_Seven](http://viper-seven.tumblr.com/) for the Spanish translations and to [Keire_ke](http://keire-ke.tumblr.com/) for the Polish translations.


	5. (Part V - "Your Work Shaped The Century")

_(Cairo)_

_Follow the money_ , Natasha had said. _Foot soldiers and bribes and kickbacks and weapons and facilities, these don't come cheap. So find out who's funding everything, and take them out first, weaken the power base. You can't command armies if you can't pay the troops._

It was almost like the search for Bucky all over again. Traversing the same paths, the same cities, the same broken or frayed lines of communication. Poring over redacted files, shadowing low-level operatives hoping they would lead Steve to the bigger players, oftentimes relying on nothing except his instincts and wits to direct him where he needed to go. Running on little to no sleep, staking out buildings for days at a time, keeping an ear out for chatter that would lead him to the next clue, the next place or person on his never-ending list.

The only difference between then and now was now his mission had a body count.

 

"JARVIS report," Steve quietly murmured, keeping his eyes on the target as he stayed four steps behind. Hunched in to blend in with the late night party crowd, all on their way to the nearest bar or club. He was in nondescript all black – hoodie, jeans, shoes – his hair dyed a dark brown, beard grown in to hide the bottom half of his face. He'd been using every one of Natasha's tricks and tips faithfully the last two weeks, and the dividends had, so far, been paying off even better than he'd hoped.

The latest target was simply another link in the chain.

"He appears to be unarmed, Captain," JARVIS replied through the small, almost undetectable earpiece in Steve's left ear. "I also can find no trace of cyanide capsules on his person."

"Good to know." He ducked around a corner, watched as the target unlocked the gated entrance to his building, and stepped inside, letting it shut behind him. Steve sprang into action, sprinted to the back of the building and vaulted over the fence in one smooth motion. The target lived on the third floor, farthest apartment on the east side. It didn't take long to scale the outside wall, using tiny cracks in the brick to aid his climb.

He used a pocket knife to ease the window open, slipped silently inside just in time to hear the key in the front door. _Perfect_ , he thought and crept just behind the door. The target had barely shut it behind him before Steve was there, the blade pressed tight against a vulnerable throat.

"Hello, Professor," he said, and pressed the knife in just enough to draw a small well of blood. "We need to talk."

"Who are you?" Full of bravado and bluster, but Steve could feel the rapid thump of the other man's heart, heard the wheezy rasps of breath. Smelled the terror on him like a cheap cologne.

"Let's just say I'm a man in need of information," Steve said, and frog-marched the good professor into the living room.

 

It took him five hours and seventeen minutes, but he finally got the information he needed. 

The police didn't find the body until a few days later, when a neighbor complained of the strange smell.

***

Los Angeles reminded Barnes of Shanghai – sprawling, hot, and teeming with people of all nationalities and races. It would be easy to blend in here, just one among millions. Harder to stay off the grid and away from the all-seeing cameras, but he wasn't exactly hiding these days. If Hydra was still out there and wanted a piece of him, let them come. He was never going back in that chair or in a cell or anywhere anyone could keep him caged up. If he had to die, so be it. At least he'd die free.

But he was going to take as many of his former captors down with him as he could.

The Roosevelt Hotel didn't look any different on the outside than it had the last time he'd been here. Barnes stood across the street on the busy tourist corner of Hollywood and Orange, hands in his pockets, and remembered a summer's night in 1971.

Senator Pullman had been a level five, chairing a committee that was deciding on funding for a military contract Hydra controlled. Pullman had been vehemently against the funding, even when presented with the usual kickbacks and bribes. He'd also been stubbornly resistant to other methods of persuasion (he didn't have a drug or gambling habit, and as he'd been single, there was no wife to care about the endless parade of buxom blondes he squired around the Hill); ergo, he'd been marked for termination. Normally, not a job worth bringing the Winter Soldier out of cryo for, but Pierce had taken a personal interest in Pullman's demise. And there'd been a special sort of challenge for the Soldier in that there couldn't be the slightest hint of foul play in the execution. Nothing could come back and put any sort of suspicion on the vote or Hydra's intentions. 

Barnes remembered shadowing Pullman for three days, learning his habits and proclivities, until Congress had broken for summer break. Remembered following the good senator out to Los Angeles and the Roosevelt, and posing as one of the hotel staff. Where he'd been on hand, watching, as Pullman had struck up a conversation with the young woman in a tiny white bikini lounging by the pool. 

The girl, and she couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty, had been the sort of beautiful that was born for a city like L.A. and the bright lights – curvy and with wide eyes and full lips and an aura about her that invited the eye to stop and linger. Even the Soldier, trained to be dispassionate and stoic, had taken a second look. 

Unfortunately for her, Senator Pullman had also taken a second look. Taken a look and an interest, stopping by her lounge chair to strike up a conversation, sure enough of his own power and wealth that he'd seen her traffic-stopping looks as a challenge and a right. It would have never occurred to him that she _wouldn't_ be interested in his advances.

To her credit, she'd been polite. Probably trying to ascertain if leading him on would have been worth it to her no doubt nascent acting or modeling career. And, in fact, having her around to distract the senator had actually worked to the Soldier's benefit, as he'd been able to quietly slip an untraceable drug into Pullman's pre-swim smoothie while he'd been occupied.

But he'd thought her gaze had flicked briefly his way while he'd been at the senator's chair under the guise of refilling his water glass. And loose ends were never an option.

He never even knew her name. Just watched, calm and patient, as she'd made her excuses to the Senator and left the pool area. Then waited until hotel and medical personnel had shown up to try to revive a dead man, and slipped up to the girl's room. Breaking her neck and using one of the hotel's laundry carts to transport her body off site had taken him less than five minutes. He'd dumped her body in the wooded area around Runyon Canyon; she wasn't even found until almost a month later. 

The police had made cursory inquiries, but no one had claimed the body and there were no relatives or friends who appeared to made a fuss about why the investigation had been declared finished before it even started. She was filed as Jane Doe - just another lost soul who'd come to L.A. with big dreams and had gotten swallowed up by the vultures that roamed the streets. Just another pretty girl who'd lived too fast and died too young.

Acceptable collateral damage.

It was only fitting that he could vividly recall the jade green of her eyes and the way her hair had been artfully piled on her head with loose tendrils escaping to caress her neck. He could remember the endless length of her legs and the exact sound her neck had made when he'd snapped it. He could remember every detail about her even almost forty-five years later. But he'd needed Steve's assistance in picturing his own mother. Needed a hastily drawn sketch to picture eyes he should never have forgotten, and a smile that he should have known in any life, any time.

If this was to be his penance for all the wrongs and atrocities he'd committed, he couldn't think of anything more poetic.

***

Barnes couldn't keep the bike. As much as he enjoyed teasing Steve about stealing it out from under him, he couldn't borrow it indefinitely. (Not that he thought Steve would mind if he did.) But Taos was the last place on his list in North America, and he didn't want to leave it somewhere Steve couldn't easily retrieve it. He'd promised Steve he'd return it safely. It was important that he keep that promise. 

It only took him a few minutes of searching before he decided on a safe location to leave the bike. Tony Stark had rebuilt his house in Malibu, and had spent considerable time and effort and money to beef up the security on the house and the grounds. Stark and Steve were colleagues, fought together on the Avengers team. Steve would never trust someone unworthy to watch his six; ergo, the bike should be secure enough at Stark's place.

He could take a few days, do some recon, figure out how to bypass the security system and leave the bike as an unexpected present, but who knew how long it would take Stark to figure out his home had been breached? Who knew how long it would take Steve to figure out his bike was even there? The old him – the Asset, the Soldier – wouldn't have bothered with anything as mundane as another person's feelings. But he wasn't the Winter Soldier or the Asset anymore (he would never be either again, no matter what), and he wasn't hiding his actions. He _wanted_ Steve to know his property was in a protected location.

Steve, as he always did, answered his phone on the first ring. "Hey, Buck. You need anything?"

"I'm dropping your bike off at Stark's place in Malibu," Barnes replied. "Any unexpected security protocols I need to know about?"

"You don't have to do that," Steve protested. "Keep it as long as you like."

"I appreciate the offer, but it wouldn't...be feasible...to take it with me where I'm going next." As secure as the line was, he still didn't quite trust giving his travel plans over the phone. "Besides, if I keep your lady much longer, I'm not giving her back."

Steve, as hoped, let out an amused chuckle. "Alright alright, I get it. But when you start whining about missing riding her too much, I'll just be over here laughing at you."

Barnes snorted. "I don't need all of my memories back to know you'd do that anyway."

"You're probably right."

"I generally am."

"Yeah, okay, buddy, keep telling yourself that."

He couldn't say why, but this felt right. Like _them_ , or how he imagined they used to be once. Everything about the exchange flowed smoothly, a dance where he didn't have to think, just knew every step and turn blindfolded. It was nice. Like maybe he _could_ reclaim that part of himself one day, after he'd made enough amends.

"I could hang out a couple of extra days. If you wanted to collect in person, that is," he offered. He hadn't been _planning_ on sticking around, but it might be nice to see Steve again, even if only for a few hours.

" _Oh_ ," Steve replied, and Barnes could hear the regret in Steve's voice before he continued. "I wish I could… Jeez, you have no idea, but I'm not...I'm not in the country right now."

It took Barnes a moment to recognize the churning feeling in his gut as disappointment. "Okay. Dropping it off at Stark's place it is, I guess."

"I'm really sorry." Steve sounded miserable.

"It's fine." Steve was a busy man, one with many responsibilities. Important ones that took precedence. Separating himself from Steve had been his choice. He needed to remember that, too. "So...where should I park the bike?"

"Um...well, there's a gate at the front entrance," Steve told him. "Just tell JARVIS your name. He'll know you."

"Howard Stark's old butler?" Barnes asked, confused. "I thought he died a long time ago." 

"No, it's...well, it's a long story, but JARVIS is Tony's artificial intelligence system," Steve replied. "He – uh, well, Tony calls it a he – he runs all of Tony's security. I think he might've named it after the butler, although I never asked."

"Copy that." It made a certain amount of sense. Trust Tony Stark to have invented a functioning AI just to serve his own personal needs. Had Howard been the same way? Would the old him have known? Had they even been friends? "Anything else I should know?"

"No, I think you're good."

"Okay." Should be easy enough. Drop off the bike, find alternate transportation to Taos, then make his way out of the country after that. "Take care of yourself out there, Steve," he added. "We've got a match to finish."

"Same goes for you." He could practically hear Steve's smile. "I've been looking forward to kicking your ass for a long time."

Had Steve always been so full of bravado and competitiveness? Or was this something new to this day and age? Either way, he liked it. Liked that Steve felt comfortable enough with him to joke like this. 

"Yeah, I don't think so. Fifty bucks says I can get to checkmate inside twenty moves." He could probably do it inside fifteen if he made a few more sacrifices, but he didn't want to make Steve feel _too_ bad.

"Oh, is _that_ how we're playing this now?" Steve asked, clearly delighted. "You're on."

"You might want to up your game, then," he said, and hoped that Steve could also hear _his_ smile in the reply. 

***

He took surface streets through Hollywood and Beverly Hills and West LA until he hit the PCH, then gunned the engine, enjoyed the freedom of the wind in his hair and the breeze at his back. Perhaps he'd buy a bike of his own someday. He had enough money in various accounts, all of it siphoned from Hydra's coffers, to afford whatever he wanted now. 

Once he learned what that was, of course.

Stark's house sat on a cliff overlooking the endless horizon of the Pacific, the view spectacular and grandiose. The gate was also there as promised, and it only took the briefest of conversations with the AI for it to swing open and grant him entrance. He coasted the bike up the drive and came to a halt just as a massive blond guy came out the front door and jogged down the steps. The man was easily taller than him, or even Steve, and bigger through the body, with shoulder-length blond hair pulled off his face in a half-ponytail. His face was handsome, rugged, the sort that some would call chiseled, and he was giving Barnes a grin so blindingly bright that it put the sun beating down on them to shame.

He looked _very_ familiar.

"You must be James," the man said, all but beaming out the greeting.

He slowly got off the bike, kept his eyes on the other man even as he took quick stock of the situation. The man wasn't armed in any way – there was no telltale gun bulge under his track pants, or sign of an ankle holster, and his t-shirt was stretched far too tight across his broad chest to hide a knife or any other weapon. He could be hiding a back holster, but his loose movements and easy stance suggested otherwise. The other man's hands were also relaxed at his sides, and everything in his body language said non-threat. 

"Do I know you?" Barnes finally asked. Polite, but wary. Steve hadn't mentioned anything about Tony having houseguests.

"Forgive me, I haven't properly introduced myself." The blond touched his fingers to his broad chest. "My name is Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard. I'm a shield brother to Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, and am proud to serve alongside them in the Avengers Initiative. It is an honor to meet you, James Buchanan Barnes. I've heard much about you from Steven."

"Thor?" Barnes repeated, even though he'd heard the other man perfectly well. No wonder he'd looked so familiar. He started mentally running through all of the information he'd been gathering the last few months on Steve and Steve's team of superheroes and super spies. His team at SHIELD, his fellow Avengers. And now that he had a context for the other man's relaxed posture and general aura of welcome, he was able to lower his shoulders just a fraction. Still cautious, but no longer on high alert. 

"If you're looking for Steven, I'm afraid he's not here."

"I'm not...I wasn't." Thor was still smiling at him. Amiable. Amused. Still calm and at ease. Like he wasn't standing within striking distance of the most lethal assassin in modern history. "Steve didn't...he didn't mention you'd be here," Barnes finished, and wondered if he sounded as nonplussed as he felt.

Not knowing how to act in any given situation was a very new feeling.

"Ah, I understand." Thor's face cleared, and he nodded. "I was invited to speak at Pepperdine University – one of the professors there is teaching an advanced class in Norse Mythology and asked if I'd be willing to do a series of lectures. Tony very generously offered me the use of his home since it's in the area."

It all sounded plausible, easily verified. Barnes relaxed another degree. "Sounds interesting."

"It is, but I suspect you're not here to trade stories," Thor replied.

"How did you know who I was?"

"JARVIS announced your presence as you were coming up the drive so I wouldn't take any action." Thor cocked his head, the smile sliding off his face and replaced by a considering frown. "You seem ill at ease, James. May I call you that? Would you prefer Barnes or Sergeant or Bucky?"

Would he? "I...I don't know," he answered, with a small shrug. "You're the first person to ask." 

Steve kept calling him Bucky, and it was easier to go along with it, even though the name still didn't feel quite like _his_. Like he didn't have the right to call himself that yet. But it still felt nice every time Steve did it, so he never bothered to tell Steve to stop. Maybe, one day, he'd earn the right to call himself by that name again.

Thor's frown grew even bigger. "You _are_ James Buchanan Barnes, are you not? Steven's friend and shield brother? You very much look like the photos I've seen and the way Steven's described you."

Shield brother. It sounded old-fashioned. Sweet, almost. Like something he might have said in a previous life, if only he could remember it. "Yeah, I guess, for lack of anything better to call me. Although I'm...I'm not real sure about who _me_ is these days."

The frown cleared, but the serious look on Thor's face didn't. "Yes, Steven had mentioned that you were having some difficulties in recalling your previous life."

He let out an unamused snort. "That's certainly _one_ way of putting it."

Then Thor gestured at the door. "I can give you the tour, if you like, show you where the guest bedrooms are. Is that your only luggage?" he asked, nodding at the backpack.

"Uh, yeah." He tightened his hold on the strap, hefted it higher on his shoulder. "But I'm... I just stopped by to drop off Steve's bike," he finished, jerking a thumb in its direction.

"I was wondering why it looked so familiar."

"I didn't think there'd be anyone here." Thor hadn't made any move towards him, was keeping his hands nice and loose at his sides, but still. Barnes _had_ done his research. He knew exactly what Thor was capable of, the damage he could inflict. Knew all about that hammer of his, and what it could do as well. Sure, he trusted his own training and reflexes, knew he could get in a few shots or hits before things got ugly, but he'd rather not have to fight one of Steve's colleagues if he could help it.

"Were you planning on staying the night, or did you have pressing business elsewhere?"

He should leave. Logically, he knew he needed to stay on the move, stay off the grid as much as possible. Tony Stark may have the best security money could buy, but even the best systems had flaws. Points of ingress to be exploited. And if Hydra was still in play, then they'd be searching for any intel on their weapon. Their precious Asset. Either to try to bring him back into the fold or to try to kill him to tie up loose ends. "I shouldn't," he said.

"I understand," Thor replied, with a small smile. "Although I must confess the company would be nice. The house is lovely, but a little secluded."

On the surface, it sounded like an honest invitation. But it could still be a trap, he reminded himself. A plant, a decoy, a way to get him to relax his guard. And while he didn't know the man in front of him, he knew somewhere he could go for the sort of endorsement he needed. "One minute," he said, and pulled out his phone. Hit dial on the only number he had programmed into it.

Steve picked up immediately. "Something wrong? Do you need help with JARVIS?"

"No," he answered. "But your friend Thor is standing in front of me right now. He just invited me inside." 

He heard Steve's sharp, surprised intake of breath, then the way he slowed the exhale degree by degree. "I didn't know he was at the house. You need verification?"

"It would be beneficial."

"Yeah, alright. Send me a picture."

He turned the phone Thor's way, snapped one without asking, and sent it to Steve. "Do you make a habit to surround yourself with men who look like they wrestle bears for breakfast?" he asked, when he put the phone back to his ear.

"Uh, no, but you know what they say, all Norse gods look alike," Steve joked. "Hang on." He was back a second later. "Yeah, that's Thor alright."

"Or someone who looks like him." It could still be a trap. Someone wearing a mask or an LMD.

"Only one way to find out," Steve replied. "Can you put me on speaker?"

He did so, and palmed the phone in his hand, looked at Thor. "Alright, Steve, you've got both of us."

"Hey, Thor," Steve said, his voice tinny, but clear.

"Steven, it is good to hear your voice," Thor replied, with a small, but genuine-looking smile. "I was trying to convince your friend to stay the night, and perhaps share a meal and a story or two."

"And I'd like nothing better than for you two to become friends, I promise, but I need to ask you something first."

Thor's gaze flickered to Barnes' face, then back to the phone. "I'm listening."

"Do you remember what you said to me the night you first made me try Asgardian mead?" Steve asked.

"Yes, of course." Thor's face broke into a wide, understanding smile. "Ah, forgive me, I understand now. You're trying to ascertain if I am truly myself."

"That's the idea," Steve replied. "Do you remember?"

"You were telling me about your friend, James. About how you lost him and the regret you carried with you, the guilt you felt that you couldn't do more to save him."

It took everything inside him to keep from flinching. To keep his hand steady on the phone, his eyes steady on Thor for any unexpected movement. "What happened to me wasn't your fault, Steve."

"Yeah, it was," Steve replied, with a hitch in his voice. "Thor, do you remember what you told me?"

Thor's voice softened. "I told you that your grief and regret were your way of keeping your friend alive in your heart, but your heart wasn't meant to house such burdens. I also told you that the weight of it would someday be too much for you to bear."

"Thank you," Steve said, and now his voice was shaking. "Buck, you can...you can take me off speaker now."

He did so, and put the phone back to his ear. There was a tight band squeezing his chest, and a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Steve..." he started, but Steve cut him off.

"It's him," he quietly stated. "It's Thor. I'd bet my life on it. No one else was there that night, no one else knows what we talked about."

"Steve," he tried again, uncertain what to even say. "It _wasn't_ your fault. You can't keep thinking this."

"You can trust him, okay? He's a good man. He'll back your play, whatever it is. Please...it would mean a lot to me if I knew you had someplace safe to stay tonight."

He sighed, defeated. Had he ever been able to resist that pleading note in Steve's voice? "Alright," he said, giving in. He had a feeling this wasn't new for him. "Can Thor fight in person as well as he does in the videos I've seen?"

"Better," Steve said, with a laugh that was only slightly strained. "He's taught me more than a few moves. On his home world, he's led armies. If you need references –"

"Your word is good enough, okay," he interrupted, and meant it. He may not know much, but that was rock solid.

"Thank you, Buck. Just...thank you," Steve replied in a choked voice, and the line went dead a moment later.

He sighed, pocketed the phone, and gave Thor another look. "He said I could trust you."

"I'm honored he would think so highly of me," Thor replied, with a regal nod. "And I can promise you that no harm will come to you tonight or any other night in this house or while you're under my protection."

Under Thor's protection. Like he was deserving of it. "Shouldn't you be more worried about who might protect you from me?" he asked, curious. Thor had to be aware of who he'd become, of the violence he was capable of.

" _Should_ I be? Are you a danger to me?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," he answered. "But I don't want..." He stopped, shrugged. It wasn't worth saying aloud. Steve said he could trust Thor, so that's what he was going to do. "You mentioned a guest room?"

"Certainly." Thor started up the steps, then stopped. "You never did answer me on what I should call you."

"No, I guess I didn't," he answered and gave it some thought. Barnes _still_ wasn't sitting quite right, and there was no way he could ever see himself answering to Jimmy or Jim. At the same time, Buchanan was far too unwieldy, far too unique for a man still used to skirting the shadows. And as for Bucky... Well, Bucky belonged to another person, another life. Bucky was Steve's best friend, his right hand man. Bucky was a good man, a son, a brother, someone with a family and a past. 

He still wasn't Bucky. Not yet.

"James?" he finally ventured, with a shrug. It worked as well as anything else. And having a real name – an actual identity that was _his_ – would be...nice. A small step towards reclaiming himself, whoever he was now. A baby step towards that clean slate he and Steve had talked about.

"James it is," Thor said with a nod. As simple as that. "Can I interest you in a drink?"

He liked the way James sounded on Thor's tongue. Like it was something strong, something good. A goal he could aspire to. "Yeah, you know what?" he said. "I think I'd like one."

***


	6. (Part VI - "I Don't Do That Anymore")

Stark's home was, as expected, just as blatantly wealthy and spacious on the inside as it was from the outside. Sleek, modern, with stainless steel appliances and impeccably expensive furniture and art. Thor led him through the rooms, allowed him the time to scope out exits and blind spots, and made sure to keep a good six feet of distance between them. James was grateful for it.

"There are four guest rooms," Thor stated, leading him up the stairs to the second level. "I have the first one on the left, but you're welcome to any of the others."

"I'll take that one," he replied, nodding at the corner room. The window faced the cliff wall and the ocean. Not ideal from a security standpoint, but it still better than the other rooms he’d seen. At least the sightlines were good and the points of ingress minimal. 

He set his backpack on the bed, and stripped off his jacket, but kept his weapons on him. If Thor noticed he was still armed, he didn't say anything about it. Just nodded and led him to the large outdoor deck and the sparkling, crystal-blue pool.

"Do you have a preference in your choice of libations?" Thor asked, heading towards the outdoor bar on the far side of the pool.

"I don't know," James replied. Maybe in his former life he'd had a favorite drink, but he couldn't remember it. It didn't seem important enough to bother Steve with, either. It was past time he started figuring out his likes and dislikes in the here and now, anyway. "Just bring me whatever you're having."

He took a seat at the patio table, shaded by a large umbrella. The view overlooking the Pacific was spectacular. The breeze was nice and cool, with a sharp scent of brine in the air. The rhythmic roar of the waves crashing along the cliffs was soothing. His shoulders once again relaxed.

_You're safe here. Steve would never let you stay somewhere that wasn't._

A tumbler filled with ice and a clear liquid appeared next to his left elbow. Thor took the seat across from him, holding an identical glass. "Gin," he said. "The taste of it reminds me of _hederacea_ , a drink we have on Asgard. I've been told this alcohol should be served with lime or sparkling water of some type, but I’ve found I like the taste of it as it is."

James took a small sip. The taste was sharp, smooth, with a hint of citrus and apple underneath. "I like it, too," he said, and took another sip. There were woodsy undertones mixed with juniper and almond and, if he wasn't mistaken, coriander. Made for an intriguing combination. One he thought he could get used to.

"I'm glad to hear it." Thor gestured at his left arm. "Forgive me if the question is indelicate, but the craftsmanship on your arm is exquisite. I wasn't aware Midgardians – the people of your planet – were capable of creating limbs such as this."

The servos clicked and whirred as James twisted his wrist, the metal gleaming, even in the shade. "I don't know if it's common or not, although I don't think it is. I've certainly never seen anyone else with an arm like mine. But I have no idea how I got it. Or when, exactly. But I do know that it's made of a vibranium alloy."

"Much like Steve's shield," Thor replied, with a thoughtful nod. "He told me the metal is particularly rare."

"As far as I know, vibranium is only found in one country on earth, and they're not too big on sharing it with the rest of the world." James remembered a mission in Wakanda in the early '50s, during King Azzuri's reign. The target had been a geo-physicist of some repute, a Wakandan native that Hydra had wanted dead for one reason or another; they hadn't always seen fit to share that information with him, and he'd certainly never asked. They'd called the Winter Soldier in to infiltrate the notoriously hard to cross border undetected, execute the mission, and exfil just as quietly. The entire mission had taken him nine days. All he remembered of the country was that it had been very green and the capital city a gleaming marvel of tall skyscrapers and gorgeous architecture that had rivaled New York or London or Hong Kong for impressiveness.

"That is my understanding as well." Thor took another sip of his drink. "Do you mind if I inquire how it is you and Steven reunited? The last time I spoke with him, he'd indicated that he was...having difficulty locating your exact whereabouts."

Delicately put. James admired the tact in the inquiry. "He caught up with me in Abilene a few weeks ago," he said, and looked back out at the ocean. He could feel the weight of Thor's gaze upon him.

"I had not thought Steven would let you out of his sight again."

James swallowed. Thought about the look of quiet devastation on Steve's face he hadn't been able to mask in time when he’d stated his desire to strike out on his own. "Things between us are..." he trailed off, made a helpless gesture. He could kill a man ten different ways with just his right hand, but he had no idea how to explain his complicated connection to Steve Rogers to anyone. Not even himself. Or why he couldn't be in the same room as Steve, but needed the sound of his voice to chase away the ghosts that always seemed to crowd much too close for comfort.

"I understand," Thor quietly answered. "Relations between my brother, Loki, and myself were often...fraught."

James turned his head, met a knowing, sad look. "I'm sorry," he said. He remembered reading that Loki had been the one responsible for the attack in Midtown New York a few years ago. That was bound to be a hard pill to swallow for a man who'd professed to come to Earth to protect people.

Did Steve feel that way about James? He hadn't caused nearly the destruction and chaos as Loki, nor was his body count as high, but it still couldn't be an easy burden for Steve to carry. Knowing that his childhood best friend, his brother in all but blood, was a mass murderer. Knowing that there were those who wanted him imprisoned or dead for his crimes. Captain America's right-hand man, a stone-cold killer. James could just imagine the headlines if and when the news of his resurrection became public knowledge.

Thor nodded his acceptance. His eyes were warm and filled with a world-weary sadness. "What brings you to Malibu?"

James accepted the change in subject with an inward sigh of relief. "Like I said earlier. Returning Steve's bike. But I was in the area for a different reason."

Now Thor looked intrigued. "Such as?" he asked, after another sip.

"Answers."

"To your identity?"

If only it was that easy. He shrugged. "In a manner of speaking."

"And did you find them?" Thor asked.

James drained his glass, and set it back on the table. "A few," he admitted. Not the right ones, not the ones that mattered, but every memory was a building block. Even the memories of death and destruction were better than the blank slate he'd had those terrifying first few days after he'd left Steve on the bank of the Potomac.

"And where are you off to once you leave here?"

He had no idea why Thor even cared, but he couldn't see any reason to keep it a secret. "New Mexico," he answered. "Taos."

Thor's eyes brightened. "I have fond memories of New Mexico. It’s a most interesting place. Would you be averse to some company on your journey?"

James sat back, surprised. "Are you...you want to come with me to Taos?" he asked, not certain he was hearing Thor correctly.

"Forgive me, I have a hard time sometimes with Midgardian customs. Should I not have asked? Did you wish for solitude instead?"

Did he? A mere 24 hours ago, he wouldn't have had to think twice about it. Alone was what he knew best. Alone was safe. Alone wouldn't get anyone near him hurt or captured or killed. He didn't mind being alone. But alone wasn't getting him any closer to where he wanted to be. Alone was fine for recounting his previous missions and paying his respects to those he'd killed, but every day, he felt more and more dissatisfied. Every day, he was reminded that those few hours he’d spent with Steve back in Texas were the last time he'd truly felt like James Buchanan Barnes, a person.

Following Steve to New York was still out of the question. He still had too many stops to make, too many sites to visit, far too many amends to make. But having a companion for a few days – someone who had no expectations about who he was supposed to be – might not be such a bad thing. And traveling with someone like Thor Odinson of Asgard, someone not from here in the most basic sense, would fit the bill perfectly. Plus, Thor could look after himself if Hydra decided to come calling.

"I thought you said you were here for a series of lectures," he said.

"I was. But my last one was yesterday," Thor replied. "I find myself at loose ends at the moment."

Loose ends. James could relate. He'd been at loose ends since the Potomac. "You know how to drive a car?" he asked. They were going to need some mode of transportation, and another motorcycle was out of the question if they were going to travel together.

Thor laughed, and nodded. "I do, indeed. The Ladies Jane and Darcy taught me."

"Great." That made things so much easier. "We'll need a car – a convertible, I think." He liked the breeze he'd felt along his skin when driving Steve's bike. Not to mention, the unlimited sightlines would be a plus if they had the top down. Sure, there was a risk of being detected by satellites or drones, but he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life hiding, too scared to show his face. 

"Tony has several vehicles housed in his garage."

James raised an eyebrow. There was not giving a damn if he kept a low profile, and then there was just plain lunacy. "You want to steal a car from Tony Stark?"

Thor chuckled and got up to bring the gin bottle back to the table. He refilled both their glasses. "It would not be theft. Tony has been most generous in allowing me the use of both the house and his cars."

"That does make things easier," James admitted, picking his glass back up. "But I'm not...if you're expecting good conversation or...anything, really, then you're going to be disappointed." This was the longest conversation he'd had with anyone other than Steve since...well, probably 1945, if he was honest.

Thor's smile was genial. "I expect nothing more than what you wish to share, James. Even if all you wish to share is your silence."

"Okay, then." James took a breath. "You should know – in case Steve hasn't mentioned it, and I doubt he has, because he's stubborn like that – I'm wanted for questioning by several government agencies. Like, throw me in a hole or a black site, and throw away the key kind of questioning. And Hydra's still out there, probably dying to get their hooks back in me. Or, at the very least, to silence me permanently. There are a lot of missions I know about that they’d rather the rest of the world didn’t, if you follow."

Thor gave a thoughtful nod. "I can defend myself and you against any threat to your person, if needs be."

"Thanks, but that's not what I meant." Although James appreciated the sentiment. It was nice. That Thor thought he was someone worth protecting. "I can handle myself if it comes to a fight. I just...thought you should know. And," he added, because he might as well be totally honest, "I've been going to all of my kill sites from my missions for Hydra. Revisiting each place to...see if my memories line up with the reports."

Thor nodded again. If he was surprised or disgusted or outraged, it didn't show. "Understood," he said. "When would you like to leave?"

"Tomorrow morning's fine." He could do with a shower and a good night's sleep, assuming he _could_ fall asleep tonight. Aside from the night he'd spent in Steve's motel room, he'd only been able to snatch an hour or two at a time for months. "I'll let you pick out the car."

"I know just the one."

***

_The hallway was long and narrow and dimly lit, but he kept walking, sure in his steps. The door appeared in front of him as if by magic, and he pushed it open, the hallway behind him disappearing as soon as he did. He heard laughter around him, deep and rich and amused, a sound that he knew in his bones, and he tried to turn to see who it was that was laughing. Wanted to share in the joke or the story, as sure of his welcome as he was his..._

_Wait. What_ was _his name?_

_His feet suddenly seemed rooted to the ground and, when he looked down at them, they were encased in heavy chains. And when he tried to reach down to tug at them, he found that his hands were also bound together._

_The bright laughter dissipated like mist, fading into shrieks that turned into screams, then into nothing. He struggled in vain, twisting and straining every muscle, trying to find some way out of his incarceration. But the more he fought, the more the room changed and shrank. The light around him faded, and darkness closed in, suffocating and total._

_"No," he whispered, terrified. He knew this place. "Please. No."_

_The chair appeared as if by some twisted magic. He struggled anew, bucked and resisted the pull as much as he could, but the cuffs only tightened the more he moved. He squeezed his eyes shut to make the image go away, but he felt the cool metal of the chair surround him. Envelop him._

_"Look at me."_

_He obeyed on instinct, met pale, lifeless blue eyes. Eyes that demanded absolute obedience. Compliance would be rewarded._

_He no longer struggled. There was no point. Even if he could escape this chair, there would be another one somewhere else in the world. There was always a chair. There were always restraints. There was always a mission._

_"Your work shaped the century," he was told. "You should be proud."_

_What use did pride have? He accomplished his objectives. That was all that mattered. He stayed silent._

_"I just need you to do one more thing for me. Can you do that?"_

_What choice did he have? What choice did he ever have?_

_A gnarled hand pointed over his shoulder. "I need those targets eliminated. All of them."_

_He looked as directed. Three dark-haired girls, ranging in age from four to ten, were standing in front of a slim dark-haired woman and a taller dark-haired man. Beside them was a short, blond boy with floppy bangs and eyes the color of the spring sky. "Are they a threat?" he asked, cocking his head to study them further. They didn't look like much of one, but he knew how deceiving looks could be._

_"The greatest of threats," he was assured. "Allowing them to live would jeopardize everything we've worked so hard to achieve. Can I count on you to balance the scales one last time?"_

_He took the offered gun, flicked off the safety and stood. The restraints holding him were miraculously gone. He didn't question why. Just raised his arm and aimed the barrel._

_Six gunshots rang out in quick succession. Six bodies dropped to the ground. Mission accomplished._

***

James shot up straight in the bed. His heart beat wildly in his chest, breath heavy and locomotive fast as his eyes blinked into some sort of focus. For one terrifying moment, he couldn't remember where he was or when he was. _What_ he was. Pierce's voice rang in his ears, along with the echo of the gunshots.

Then he heard the pounding of the waves through the open sliding glass door. Malibu. He was in Malibu. Staying at Tony Stark's. His name was James Buchanan Barnes. He was a person, one with a past, and he had _choices_ now of who he killed or if he killed at all and the missions he took, and nothing he'd dreamed was real. Whoever those people were – and his brain shied violently away from trying to name them – they hadn't died by his hand, if they were even dead at all.

He threw off the covers and walked out to the terrace. The cool sea breeze was a balm to his skin, and he tilted his face into it. His heart was still racing, but the images in the nightmare were already dissipating. Pierce was dead. Zola was dead. Fennhoff was dead. Whatever hold they'd once had on him was also dead.

He was his own person. He made his own choices. He was free, whatever that meant now. But still, he could feel the restraints on his wrists, on his ankles. Feel their implacable, unbreakable hold. 

He thought about going down to Tony's weapons range (because of course Iron Man had a weapons range) to get in some practice, but he couldn't bring himself to hold his gun at the moment. The nightmare was still far too fresh in his mind. At this point, he wasn't sure when he'd be ready to fire a gun or use a weapon again.

He suddenly, violently, wished Steve was here. Sitting here with him, offering strength and comfort, his presence enough to drive away all the demons. But Steve was across the world, saving innocent lives. Doing good. And, somehow, the thought of calling Steve just to hear his voice seemed...dependent. Unhealthy. He had to learn to deal with the nightmares on his own if he was to ever have a shot at moving past them.

_Inhale slowly, one two three, exhale slowly, one two three, there you go, keep going. In, one two three, out, one two three, easy as pie, see. Nothing to worry about, you're fine. Just keep breathing for me nice and steady._

Instead of going inside and grabbing his phone, he took the advice of the voice in his head, and breathed in slow and even, then out slow and even. Felt his pulse slow degree by degree, felt his head clear breath by breath. The steady roar of the waves filled his ears, and he blocked out all other sound. Just concentrated on tethering himself to the here and now.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. He was in California. His thoughts and free will were his own. He tried to empty his mind to everything that wasn't the present. 

But it was a long, long time before he could convince himself it was safe enough to go back inside. And he spent the rest of the night lying in bed, eyes open, ears attuned to any strange noise. 

***

When he walked down the front steps the next morning, Thor was already waiting for him. Sitting behind the wheel of a neon blue convertible Ford Mustang. His hair was tied into a bun that rested at his nape, and his beaming smile rivaled the sun overhead.

"Is this vehicle sufficient for your needs?" he asked, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Yeah." It was impossible _not_ to return the grin, so James didn't bother. Already, he felt lighter, shedding the weight of the previous night and the nightmares that had been plaguing him for weeks now. Those dark thoughts and regrets had no place here. "It'll do just fine."

He noticed that Thor left the trunk open for him, but the thought of not having quick access to his backpack didn’t sit right with him. Instead, he closed the trunk and tossed his backpack in the back seat, then slid in along the leather interior of the passenger seat. Thor gave him a sidelong glance. "I hope you're fond of music."

"I...I have no idea, actually. If I am or not." Surely, he liked music. Or, he had, once upon a time, back when he'd been a whole person.

"Do you wish to learn?"

Did he? Most people seemed to like some form of music, some form of art. It seemed to be a universal trait, and another important step grounding him to the here and the now. Which meant he should probably learn what he liked and didn't like. "Yeah, I think I do."

Thor gestured at the car stereo. "Then you can be in charge while I drive. What route would you like me to take?"

"Just get on the 10 and head east. I'll let you know where to turn," he said. 

Thor eased them out of the drive and onto the PCH as James fiddled around with the stereo, skipping from station to station to station before he stopped. There was something familiar in the haunting strains of the notes...

"Do you know who this is?" he asked.

Thor shook his head. "I'm sorry, I do not. But this song pleases you?"

"I've heard it before." James closed his eyes, followed the music. The soaring violins, the lilting flutes, the heavier touch of oboes...it was beautiful. And filled with echoes of old grief.

"Mid-60s, I was in Hanoi to assassinate a French diplomat, and there was a state function at the Opera House." He kept his eyes closed, pictured the marble exterior, the beautifully sculptured airy interior, the curved ceiling, the brilliance of the acoustics. "The orchestra was playing this piece."

He opened his eyes. "Tchaikovsky. Violin Concerto in D-Major. I slit her throat as the _Canzonetta_ ended and the _Finale_ began."

"Do you remember anything else?" Thor asked, his voice steady and non-judgmental.

James shook his head. "No." He couldn't even remember why she'd been a target or who'd given the order. Which was a first. He'd been able to clearly recall every other kill, every other mission. Maybe he needed to go to Vietnam next, instead of Europe. There might be other kills Hydra had kept from him.

The thought was terrifying. His body count was already far too high.

"I can sense your frustration," Thor said, "but you must be patient with yourself. The fact that you are remembering more of your past is a good thing."

"Is it?" He remembered the quick slash of his knife, the ruthless efficiency of the kill. His lack of empathy or concern for either her or anyone around her. He'd had orders. And orders were obeyed. Whatever the mission was, he always completed it. _Compliance would be rewarded._ "Sometimes I wish I couldn't remember any of it."

Thor gave a short nod. "Ah, yes, there are many regrets I have that I would love to forget, but without them, there is no growth."

"And the people you've hurt?" James asked, curious. "How do you reconcile that?"

"Well, that takes time. Something I've had a great deal more of than you, despite your unique circumstances," Thor added, with a sad smile that looked strained and unnatural. Thor didn’t strike James as the type who allowed himself to think dark thoughts all that often. "But there is an art to letting go of the past without forgetting its purpose. One that took me many years to master."

"Which is?" he asked. Right now, he'd take any advice he could.

"You must look at the past as merely a building block for what comes next." Thor smoothly cut through the morning traffic like he'd been driving these roads all his life. "It's a foundation, nothing more." 

"And what if all of my building blocks are bathed in blood? What then?"

"Only you can answer that, my friend."

If only it was that simple, he thought. But maybe it was. Building blocks for what came next. It was as good a place to start as any.

***

To Thor's credit, he didn't seem to mind at all that James didn't say much of anything the rest of the day. He'd found a satellite station that played a mixture of swing and jazz, and while he couldn't remember any of the words to any of the songs, the melodies all sounded familiar. And right now, he needed something he recognized, no matter how tenuous.

The snarling traffic of Los Angeles gave way to vast empty stretches of highway once they passed Palm Springs and went further into the desert. The drive to Phoenix was boring, with flat scrubland as far as the eye could see, but James didn't mind the monotony. There was something soothing about the bleached out sand and rocks and the prickly columns of cacti that dotted the landscape.

In Phoenix, they stopped to get gas and switch places, with James taking the wheel. The car wasn't as nice as Steve's bike, but the ride was still smooth, and the wind still felt like heaven across his skin. The desert gave way to red-topped mountains, then to vast green forests.

"Are you...you mind if we camp out tonight?" he asked, once they'd driven through Payson and were on their way through the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest. "I noticed you packed sleeping bags and a tent in the trunk."

"Not at all," Thor replied, with another one of his seemingly endless sunny smiles. "I brought those supplies with camping in mind. As nice as Tony's guest bed has been the past few weeks, I'm used to sleeping under the stars at night when I travel."

They found the perfect site just before sundown, and quickly set up camp. James set up the tent while Thor dug a fire pit and gathered brush and branches. They'd stopped at a local market for a couple of steaks, and soon the rich scent of sizzling meat wafted in the air. The smell tugged at James' mind, but he didn't try to chase down the memory. He'd learned through far too much trial and error over the last few months that trying to force the memories would only end in frustration and a headache. 

"You set everything up like you've done this sort of thing a lot," James commented, once they'd eaten and were passing a bottle of gin ("procured from Tony's cabinet," Thor had said, with a conspiratorial wink) back and forth. "You said you were used to camping out?"

"Yes. My father used to take my brother and I out into the woods beyond the capital when we were growing up," Thor remarked. His hair and face glowed from the light of the fire. "We would sit just as you and I are doing now, and roast pig and the Allfather would tell us stories about _his_ father and ancient times when Frost Giants walked the lands unchecked."

"You miss him?" James asked. "Your father, I mean?" He wished he could remember his own better. More than an echo of his booming laugh or how he'd always smelled of spearmint gum and tobacco. More than the occasional, far too brief glimpse he caught in his mind's eye.

"He is a busy man with many responsibilities," Thor replied. "Responsibilities I am not yet ready to take on. It has...given us issue in the past. But our relationship of late has been stronger. He's a great leader, and he's tried to be a good father, in his fashion."

"That's good. Family's important." _Family's all we got, the only thing that means a damn at the end of the day, and you remember that. Don't you ever forget it._

James tilted his head back to look at the stars. There were so many of them. Worlds without numbering, just twinkling above him as far as his eye could see. They seemed so bright out here, like he could reach out and touch them. Like he could climb a ladder and sit among them, a mere mortal among gods.

"We...we used to sit like this. In Italy, I think, or Austria, maybe, we moved around a lot, so I never bothered too much with trying to figure it out most of the time. That was Steve's job, anyway. But, Monty and Frenchy, God, we'd be sitting around sharing the fire, and they would tell the rest of us stories about the constellations and the gods and goddesses and myths behind them. And, Steve, he used to love it, y'know, paid such close attention every time, drank in every word while the rest of us were on watch or trying to catch some shut-eye. And sometimes, he'd sit there drawing it all out, brought all those words to life with his pencil. Just watching him was the real treat, it was like being back in Brooklyn watching him lose himself in his art like that. Made the war and all the fighting and killing seem real far away." 

He trailed off on a frown, lowered his head to find Thor looking back at him. "Those sound like fine memories, indeed," Thor quietly said.

"I...I don't –" He stopped. It was so clear in his mind. So real. "It just popped into my head."

Had it even really happened? Or was he so desperate to piece together any part of himself that he made it up? So anxious to reclaim _something_ of his past or his family that he'd latched on to the first plausible sounding memory he could come up with.

He pulled out his phone, typed a quick message to Steve. _Watching the stars with the Commandos while on mission. Real or not?_

 _Real. Dernier and Falsworth used to tell us the myths about all of the stars and constellations, like Orion and Cassiopeia and Perseus._

James let out a short laugh as relief spread through him. "It really happened," he said aloud.

"Then this is a reason to celebrate," Thor replied.

"Yeah, I guess so," James said, fingers flying over the keys as another memory came to him. _I remember sitting beside you at a campfire. It was cold out but we were laughing so hard none of us felt it. You almost fell into the fire before I yanked you back._

_Austria, winter of '43, one of our first missions as a team. Not my finest moment. I can tell you the story, but it would take too long for a text._

_Okay. Tell me when I see you._

_Copy that._

He put the phone up, and grinned across the fire at Thor. "I remember their faces. The rest of the Howlies, I mean. I _remember_ them." 

Every one of them, from the twirl of Dum Dum's mustache to the gentleness of Morita's hands whenever he patched any of them up. From Gabe's love of aged whiskey and chocolate to Dernier teaching them all to swear in French to teasing Falsworth about the girl he had waiting for him back in Cambridge. Remembered Peggy Carter and her carefully hoarded red lipstick and unerring aim, and how he and Peggy would keep their skills sharp between missions by having marksmanship contests, with everyone placing ridiculous bets on who would hit closest to the center mark. How Steve always beamed with pride whenever Peggy’s aim was true. 

(She’d never beaten James, but she’d made things uncomfortably close a time or two. He’d always thought she’d have made a damn fine sniper, and when he’d told her that once – the highest compliment he could think of – her blush had matched her lipstick.) 

James remembered their faces, their smiles, the way they all worked together as a well-oiled machine, all the plans they'd all made for when they'd beaten the Nazis and Hydra to the ground. His family during the War.

"I _remember_ them." It came out as a relieved sob. 

"I am happy for you, my friend," Thor said, gentle and proud. "Perhaps this means your other memories will come in time."

"Maybe." But, for now, he'd take this one and hold onto it with both hands. He'd hold the memory of their faces and their laughter and that camaraderie as close to his chest as possible. Right next to his heart. 

***

_"Everything you need should be in here." Peggy set the sheaf of maps on the long table, and gave Steve an inquisitive look. "Was there anything else, Captain?"_

_Steve shook his head, dumbfounded and more than a little tongue-tied, the way he almost always was around her these days. Ever since his ill-timed kiss with Lorraine, in fact._

_"We're good," Bucky piped up, because he was a good pal like that. "But we could use your advice, if you wanted to stick around."_

_Or maybe not._

_Before Steve could even turn his head to glare in Bucky's direction, Peggy was already shaking her head. "I have a meeting with the Colonel and MI6 in ten minutes. I'll leave you to it. Gentlemen," she said, with a sweeping nod, and walked out of the room, back straight, head high, her heels a dull clack against the concrete._

_Bucky let out a lusty, low sigh after she was out of sight. "I gotta say, Steve, you've got some seriously good taste."_

_Steve just made a noncommittal noise, and helped Monty smooth the maps out across the table. "Already told you she doesn't want anything to do with me."_

_"Not from where I'm standing. It's downright illegal the way she looks at you."_

_"Rather like she could devour him," Monty added, because he and Bucky were almost always in cahoots._

_Bucky leaned against the table's edge. "You need to ask her on a date."_

_"Less meddling with my love life, more going over these maps," Steve replied, and pointed at the maps in question._

_"Steve..."_

_"_ Buck _..." Steve replied, mimicking Bucky perfectly._

_Bucky made a gesture Monty's way. "Monty, help me out here."_

_Monty made a show of studying the maps like his life depended on it. "The good Captain's personal affairs are his own business –"_

_"Thank you –"_

_"—But I would be remiss as a friend if I didn't at least mention that you should do your best not to let a woman like that slip through your fingers."_

_"Exactly my point," Bucky exclaimed, jabbing a finger to the table. "Ask her out, Steve, or so help me, God, I will."_

_Steve's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."_

_"Watch me. One of us is marrying that dame and if you won't go after her –"_

_"Fuck._ Fine, _" Steve snapped. "I'll ask her out on a proper date. You happy now?"_

_Bucky grinned, wide and winsome and completely smug. "Fucking right I am. And no backing out. I have a witness," he said, pointing Monty's way._

_"When have you ever known me to go back on my word?" Steve asked, with a pointed glare. "I said I'd do it already."_

_"Good." Then Bucky rubbed his hands together. "Now let's find ourselves some Hydra bases, shall we."_

***


	7. (Part VII - "Bad Becomes Worse")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:** Violence and implied threat of rape as a coercion tactic. (The threat is never verbalized, and no sexual assault occurs.)

_(Moscow)_

It took four very boring days of watching and waiting in the empty building across the street before Dr. Pyotr Semenov, world renowned biochemist and confirmed Hydra member, returned to the apartment he kept near Hermitage Garden, in the heart of Moscow. Semenov's main _dacha_ in Volodarsk was far too well-guarded, even for Steve, so he'd told himself to be patient. Semenov, he'd learned, liked to stay in Moscow a few times a month to entertain guests and do some work at MSU and Bauman, so it was only a matter of time before he showed himself.

Steve forced himself to wait as the sleek black Mercedes stopped outside the apartment, and a uniformed driver let Semenov out of the back seat. He had three armed bodyguards with him; one stationed at the front door, one at the back, which meant the other would be in the apartment with Semenov himself. 

Child's play, really. Steve was a little disappointed he wouldn't have more of a challenge. It had been awhile since he'd tested himself.

"JARVIS, we still good?" he murmured, keeping an eagle eye out for any surprises.

"Security protocols and guard numbers have not changed since yesterday, sir."

"Thanks," he replied, and made his move.

He took care of the guard at the back door first, breaking his neck with one clean jerk, and lowering him silently to the ground. The guard at the front door was dispatched just as easily and efficiently. Then he snuck up the stairs, careful to skip the creaky third step (discovered when he'd broken in on the first day to case the layout of the place), and made it to the landing in under three minutes.

He crept down the hall, followed the low murmur of voices, and had his gun raised, ready to shoot the third guard. But when he stepped into the spacious living room, laser-focused and ready to neutralize any threat, he found Semenov and the guard, alright. But they weren't alone.

Steve jerked to a halt as a young girl, seven or eight, popped her head over the high back of the sofa and stared right at him out of large brown eyes.

Everyone in the room froze. The bodyguard paused with his hand reaching inside his jacket. Semenov himself had his phone pressed to his ear – Steve could hear the tinny voice of the person on the other end asking what was happening. And the girl just kept looking at him, those wide eyes fixated on the gun in his hands. Semenov's files hadn't mentioned anything about a wife or children.

Time seemed to stand still as Steve weighed his options. He had a clear shot to the guard, which was his main objective. Incapacitating Semenov would take another split second – a shot to the knee or ankle would immobilize him long enough for Steve to bind him up, no problem. But the girl...she'd _seen_ him. Could describe him or identify him. A witness, even one as young as this, would destroy all of his hard work. A witness meant a statement to the police, which meant questions and inquiries and a possible APB, which meant Hydra would know someone was after them.

His finger twitched on the trigger before he could stop himself. _Just a little girl, she's just a little girl, an innocent, innocent..._

Then Semenov broke the oppressive silence. He hung up on his call without a word and, without looking away from Steve, motioned to the guard to stand down. "Masha," Semenov said, in heavily accented English, his voice gentle, soft, "why don't you let Boris take you out to the park?"

Steve shook his head. "Boris isn't going anywhere." He kept the gun trained on Boris, but lowered his gaze to meet the girl's eyes. "Masha – is that your name, sweetheart?"

The girl nodded solemnly.

"Do you have a room here? A playroom or a bedroom or someplace like that?"

Again, she nodded.

"Okay." He pasted his best Captain America smile on his face, the feel of it foreign and wrong after so long working in the shadows. "Can you go wait for me there? I just want to talk to your father –"

"Uncle," Semenov corrected.

"Your uncle and Boris for a quick minute," Steve finished. "Can you do that?"

The girl quickly nodded again and turned to face Semenov. "It's okay, Masha," he assured her. "Go on now. This will only take a moment."

She scampered off the sofa and skipped past Steve down the hall. They all waited until her footsteps faded. Then Steve motioned towards Boris. "Have a seat. Keep your hands right where I can see them or I decorate the living room brain matter grey."

Boris scowled, but obeyed. Semenov stayed right where he was, a twisted smile thinning his lips.

"I must say, I would not have thought that the great Captain America, leader of the Avengers and symbol for freedom and democracy, would have had it in him to murder a little girl. But it seems I was mistaken," he said.

Steve suppressed the flinch only through sheer will. "You know who I am?"

"Oh, Captain, you think you could fool me with your dark hair and your beard?" Semenov tsked. "I would know you anywhere. I would know Dr. Erskine's work anywhere. I did my doctoral dissertation at MIT on you, you know."

"No, I didn't." Semenov's education hadn't seemed relevant. Rookie mistake, Steve thought. One Natasha wouldn't have made. _Always know your enemy. Knowledge is the truest power you will ever wield._

"No matter." Semenov shrugged. "Whatever it is you're here hoping to find, I'm afraid I can't help you. But you, oh...you've given me so much food for thought. Your serum was designed to magnify your greatness, and yet, you were willing to pull the trigger on my seven year-old niece. I'm fascinated by the dichotomy."

_Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse. Promise me you will stay as you are...a good man._

_I'm sorry, Doc_ , Steve thought. _I'm so fucking sorry._

"I guess you caught me on a bad day," he said aloud, and kicked the living room door shut behind him. "Now, if you and your Boris over here don't mind, I have a few questions for you. I promise, this won't take long."

"And my niece?" Semenov asked, with that same curious little smile on his face.

"Sorry," Steve replied, flicking the safety on the gun as he unsheathed his knife with his other hand. "Dead men don't get to make demands or requests."

***

When he was finished with Boris and Semenov (he hadn’t been able to take as much time with them as he would have liked, and the regret ate at him like acid - they’d deserved much slower, more painful deaths), he took an extra few minutes in the bathroom to clean himself up. Washed away the blood from his hands and face, scrubbed at the stain on his shirt to get rid of some of the coppery smell. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be.

The girl's bedroom was the furthest room down the hall. When Steve opened the door, she was sitting on the floor, a doll tea party in progress. Her smile faltered when she saw him, her gaze dropping to his hands.

He raised them up high as he crouched down to her level, careful to keep his smile nice and relaxed, his movements slow and non-threatening. "Hey there," he said, and gestured at the dolls. "You almost finished?"

"We were just getting ready for cake," she informed him, her voice high-pitched. He could barely hear a trace of an accent. Private English tutor, most likely.

"Well, your uncle wanted me to take you back to your mother's, if that's alright with you. You can bring the dolls and finish your tea party at home, if you wanted," he added, when she jutted her chin out stubbornly and shook her head. He recognized the look from far too many afternoons with Bucky's sisters.

"The tea will get cold," she said, with a frown.

"You could always make a new pot," he suggested, fighting back the urge to simply scoop her up in his arms and take her home, even if she went kicking and screaming. He couldn't leave her here, not with the mess he'd made in the living room, but he didn't want to drag her anywhere against her will, either. 

_She's just a child. An innocent. Your job is to_ protect _the innocent, remember._

She wrinkled her nose, and studied him for a long moment before looking at her dolls. Then she leaned in and whispered in one of their ears, then tilted her head like she was getting a reply. "Anna says that would be acceptable," she said.

"Thank you, Anna," Steve told the doll, then smiled at Masha. It felt far too brittle. "Come on. We don't want to be late."

***

_"You're so good with the girls, Steve," Mrs. Barnes said, with a warm smile that lit Steve up from his head all the way down to his toes. "Thank you for staying."_

_"I don't mind," he said, lifting bony shoulders. "It's the least I can do for you guys looking out for me when Ma's had to work late."_

_"Now you know you're not under any obligation to do anything..."_

_"No, ma'am, I know," he interjected, because she had that tiny, tight frown on her face, and he hated thinking he was the cause of it. Sure, he was indebted to the entire Barnes family, but it wasn't polite to talk about it. He knew that. "I want to," he added, because that was also true. He'd never minded sitting with the girls. They tended to behave for him a lot better than they did Bucky._

_"You're a good boy." He caught the light floral scent of Mrs. Barnes' perfume when she bent to give his cheek a kiss. "Bucky and Joseph should be home soon, alright. If you run into any trouble, you go to Mrs. Nussdorf across the hall."_

_"Yes, ma'am. I will."_

***

The information he'd extracted from the doctor led Steve to a money-laundering facility in the basement of an abandoned factory just outside Moscow. He blew the entire building after killing everyone inside. From Moscow he traveled to Minsk, where the chemist lived who'd helped perfect the memory-wiping drugs Hydra'd used on Bucky. Steve toyed with him like a cat playing with a mouse for three days, and took deep satisfaction in every scream and every unanswered plea for mercy. He had none to give.

From Minsk, the trail led back east through Russia – Smolensk to Kursk to Voronezh. Steve was ruthless, efficient, extracting information by any means necessary. He was told addresses of safe houses, routing numbers for off-shore bank accounts, locations of weapons stashes, names of soldiers and scientists and politicians. He noted every name, every number, every bit of intel, used JARVIS to cross-reference it all. 

But he kept his kill tally to himself. If it came to it, he'd answer for his crimes with a smile on his face and no remorse, but he wouldn't let anyone implicate Tony or Natasha or Sam. The less they knew about his actual operations and interrogation methods, the better. Which meant keeping JARVIS in the dark about a lot of things, but Steve had always been good at keeping things to himself.

After all, the only way to keep a secret safe was to never tell anyone else about it. 

***

_(Bangalore)_

"That last picture you drew for me. Where was it?" Bucky asked, when Steve answered the phone. They'd long since done away with normal greetings.

He'd been sending Bucky quick sketches from every city he'd been to over the last few weeks - a group of students sipping on espressos at an _ahwa_ in Cairo, Egypt, a gnarled and twisted tree standing sentinel when he'd landed in Cypress, the towering spires of a mosque in Konya, Turkey, a group of laughing women sitting in a park in Khasuir, Georgia. Tried, in his own fashion, to find some sort of beauty in his surroundings. It was important to remind himself there was another, larger, reason for his missions. To remind himself that there was good in this world, and it was worth the cost to himself to protect it.

His soul might be soaked red in blood, but that didn't mean he was incapable of seeing other colors.

"Uh, the mosque?" he guessed, smiling at a group of children kicking around a soccer ball as he made his way down the dusty sidewalk. Half a dozen steps behind Camille Hollander, British ex-pat and financial analyst for one Alexander Pierce.

"Yes, that," Bucky said. "Was it in Konya?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Steve asked, surprised.

"Mission in '81. You don't wanna know the details."

 _Oh._ Guilt gnawed at Steve like a cancer. "I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"It's alright, Steve," Bucky assured him, even though they both knew it was a lie. Nothing about _any_ of this was alright. 

He pulled short as Hollander stopped at a vendor selling fresh produce. Dropped back a step to blend in with the crowd. "If you say so," he said belatedly.

"You're very talented. It's good that you're keeping up with your art."

"Thanks," Steve said, touched. He wanted to remind Bucky that he had just as much talent, but he stilled the words. He didn't want to put any pressure on Bucky to try to remember anything.

"You okay?" Bucky asked. "You sound tired."

If only it was that simple. _If only, if only._ He hated that phrase, and everything it meant, everything it stood for. Regret, shame, remorse, all of it coiling deep inside him, so much a part of him now that he couldn't remember what it was like to _not_ feel like a failure. Erskine's formula had given him so much, but all of his strength and power hadn't been able to help Bucky, help Peggy, hadn't been enough to stop Hydra from sinking its roots into the very foundation of society. 

What he was doing now wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But he had to start somewhere.

"I guess I am a _little_ tired," he admitted, keeping one eye on Hollander as she wandered through the bazaar. 

"Anything I can do?"

The question was Bucky Barnes all over, the protective older brother to the world. The friend who'd always had Steve's back, no matter what. 

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, and took a steadying breath. "You're doing it," he said. "Just...hearing your voice is enough." Enough to remind him that he was on the right path.

Bucky laughed, low and warm, a better balm to his senses than any salve. The only lifeline Steve needed. "God, you must be hard up for company then," he said. "Anyway, I had another reason for calling. You'll never guess where I am right now."

"You're right, I won't." Bucky could be anywhere in the world, and that was perfect, that was fine. Steve was happy just knowing that Bucky was out there somewhere, following his own path. He never asked where Bucky was or what he was doing because it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that Bucky was safe. 

Safe and as far away from Hydra's clutches – from Steve and all the blood on his hands – as possible. It was Steve’s turn now to protect Bucky from the evils of the world, and he’d always taken his responsibilities seriously.

"Were you always this much fun?" Bucky lamented. 

Steve had missed this – the easy banter and teasing exchanges – so much. "Alright, fine, I'll bite. Where are you?"

"We're really gonna have to work on your delivery."

"It’s the best you're getting, so make it count."

"Terrible," Bucky stated, and let out a mournful sigh. "Anyway, I'm standing at the top of the goddamn Grand Canyon right now and it's just...I can't even describe it. It's like nothing I've ever seen before. Has to be what finding religion is like, or, I dunno, it's just...the pictures and shit don't do it justice. Have you been out this way, seen it in person?"

Steve shut his eyes completely, the mark and the mission completely forgotten as a fresh wave of grief swept over him. He'd thought – foolishly, as it turned out – that he was done with mourning What Could Have Been. 

_If only, if only._

"No," he rasped. "That was...that was your dream. We, uh, we'd always said – well, _you_ always said – that we'd go after the War, even talked about getting the rest of the Howlies to join us at one point. One last hurrah before heading back to our lives, finding ourselves some nice girls, and settling down."

"Oh," Bucky replied, in the smallest voice Steve had ever heard. "Fuck, Steve, I didn't – you know I'd never – I'm not – I didn't _know_ , I swear –"

"Hey, it's fine." His turn for reassurances. His turn to offer comfort. "It was always _your_ dream, not mine. I'm glad you're there. Honestly. I think it's great, in fact."

"If I'd known..."

Is this what his friendship with Bucky was going to be like now? One step forward, two steps back, both of them unwittingly cutting each other to shreds and then trying to stitch up the jagged wounds before it was too late? He couldn't – he _wouldn't_ – let them keep doing this to each other. 

"Buck, I want you to listen to me." He opened his eyes – Camille was long since out of sight, but he'd find her again. She couldn't have gone too far; and he knew where she lived, in any case. But right now, he had another, more important, task to focus on.

"I'm listening," Bucky softly replied.

"Good. Because I don't want to have to say this again, although I will if I have to." He clutched the phone, tuned out everything around him that wasn't _this_. This was one mission he couldn’t afford to fail.

"I don't care if you never remember another goddamn thing about before you fell. I remember _everything_ , I'll be the keeper of those memories, okay. I just need you to do what we talked about. I'm here for you, whatever you need, but you don't have to worry about me or my feelings or –"

"You have a fucked up idea about friendship, then," Bucky interrupted. "I get what you're saying, but fuck that. I have _choices_ now, so you keep telling me, and I _choose_ to not hurt you if I can help it. And fuck you if you think, even for a second, that I’d ever agree to something like that. You really think that’s the kind of person I am now?"

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "That’s not what I’m saying –"

"Well, whatever it is you’re saying, forget it. You keep telling me we’re friends, and even _I_ know that friends look out for each other."

Stupid, stubborn, impossible – "Fuck...you know what, you haven't changed a bit."

Bucky just laughed. "Somehow, I don't think you meant that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." 

"I can live with that."

"Jesus, Buck, you _don't_ have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"Whatever you say, Steve," and it was _so_ Bucky, it was their childhood, their adolescence, all over again. Steve bristling at Bucky's coddling and Bucky ignoring it because he was the oldest and the strongest and thought he knew best.

Steve had hated it back when they were kids, and that hadn't changed at all in the decades since. "I'm not kidding," he stated, trying to keep his voice even. And, he was sure, failing miserably.

"Yeah, I know you're not, but I'm still _choosing_ to forget you said it, because it's a stupid thing to say," Bucky said, as infuriating as ever. "Also, you owe me a move."

"Of for _fuck's_ … Rook to A6," he snapped out, too annoyed to reflect on his options.

"Huh," Bucky replied, with a thoughtful hum. "Taking out my knight. Gotta say I was not expecting that."

"I guess you're not the only one full of surprises," Steve retorted, peevishly. He had to unclench his fist to keep from punching at the nearby brick wall.

"I never was." And the _way_ he said it – pointed, yet proud and maybe a little fond – was enough to dampen Steve's anger, to let it start to bleed out one shaky breath at a time. He never was very good at holding a grudge where Bucky was concerned. 

"I'll text you later, alright?" Bucky asked, like he was seeking permission. Like he needed to. "Once you’ve cooled off."

Once, Bucky had known just how to diffuse Steve's anger at the world with a well-timed quip. But now...well. They'd learn each other again. But this was just one more thing Hydra needed to pay for.

"Hey, text me whenever you want," Steve answered, the truest one he knew how to give. "It's not like I ever run out of things to be angry about."

"Yeah, I've been getting the distinct impression you don’t have the longest fuse ever," Bucky drawled, amused.

Steve huffed out a reluctant laugh. " _That_ would be the understatement of the century."

"Yeah, I get it. Just be careful not to burn yourself out, alright?"

"That's not the first time you've told me that," Steve replied, throat tight. God, he'd missed Bucky so fucking much.

"I believe it," Bucky said, quiet, like he could sense how close Steve was to the edge. "Be smart out there."

"I always am," Steve replied, the words coming a little easier. He was frosty, he was squared away. "Have fun exploring. Take lots of pictures and send 'em my way."

"You got it."

After they hung up, Steve took another deep breath, rotated his head to loosen the tension in his neck. Re-focused on the task at hand. He had a mission to complete and he couldn't afford any distractions.

***

Thankfully, finding Camille Hollander again was easy enough. She'd returned home alone and, after waiting until well past nightfall, it was also easy enough to pick the lock and let himself in. The house was quiet, dark, as he crept through each room, did a thorough sweep. (He was a lot more cautious after the fiasco with Semenov.)

He found her in the bedroom, fast asleep, and curled on her side, honey-gold hair spread across the pillow, the sheet barely resting over her hip. She wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. Which made things a helluva lot easier.

Her eyes flew open when he clamped a hand over her mouth, swung a leg across hers to pin her in place. He yanked her wrists above her head with his other hand, pressed hard enough to cut off circulation. She struggled beneath him, terror and loathing on her face, and he knew what she was thinking. Knew, and welcomed it, because he _wanted_ her to think the worst. Wanted her petrified and begging for mercy.

Wanted her to feel just a small _fraction_ of what it was Bucky had felt every single time her former boss had strapped him down and violated his mind.

"You done?" he asked, when she'd tired herself out and was lying limp beneath him, her breaths harsh and shallow beneath his fingers. "Because if you're done, then we can actually have a conversation. But if you want to keep going, I could hold you still all night."

She jerked out a nod, and he slowly removed his hand, ready to slap it right back over her mouth if she started to even draw a breath to scream. Thankfully, she kept quiet. "Good," he said, after waiting a few beats. "Now, this could go one of two ways for you, and I'm really hoping you choose the harder way, but I'll get what I want from you regardless. So, you and me, we're going to have a nice chat and I'm going to ask you a few questions. And if I like your answers, then we'll see where we go from there."

"Who are you?" she whispered, and there was something familiar in her voice, something familiar about the way she was looking at him, that he couldn't quite place.

"I just told you," he replied, with a razor-sharp smile. "I'm the one asking questions. You're the one who's going to answer them. And depending on how I like your answers, well, I can make it quick and painless for you, or I can make things really unpleasant."

She sucked in a breath, and he wagged a finger at her in warning. "Uh uh, none of that. You try to scream and then we're right back at square one, and that won't be good for either of us."

"Please," she said, her tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips. "I'll give you anything you want..."

He shifted, just to see her eyes widen in fear once more. "We just established that you're _already_ going to give me what I want. But beg if it makes you feel better." In fact, he'd welcome it. 

"You...you don't have to..." She darted out her tongue again, swept her lashes down over her eyes, and there was _something_ about it... Her gaze flickered over his body, the meaning unmistakable. "I'm willing to...negotiate." 

She was a beautiful woman, no doubt used to using that beauty to her advantage. No doubt used to having to _negotiate_ for everything she had. But all her offer did was make his skin crawl with revulsion. "You don't have anything I want," he told her, in a flat tone.

In answer, she arched beneath him, her look sly, no doubt meant to be seductive. "I can make it good for you," she promised, low, enticing, and her voice, God, her _voice_ sounded just like...

"Margie?" he breathed, too stunned for a moment to do anything other than stare.

Margie Jones, sweet, beautiful Margie. She'd been one of the dancers on the USO tour and, for a handful of heady, breathtaking weeks, she'd been the closest thing Steve had ever had to a steady girl. They'd both known what they had wasn't permanent, but that hadn't stopped them from making the most of the time they did have. She'd been patient with him in teaching him how to please a lady, and kept his spirits up on the days when he felt like a useless, frustrated puppet on a string. 

And maybe if he hadn't already met Peggy, he'd have fallen for her and her shy laugh and boundless enthusiasm for life. But, his heart wasn't his to give, and they'd agreed to end things when he quit the tour to head up the Howlies. They'd stayed in touch, written to each other when they could, and she wound up engaged to one of the men Steve had rescued in the 107th. He'd looked her up first thing once he figured out how to use the internet, had learned that she'd lived a nice, long life, had kids and grandkids, and had run her own business.

Heavy-lidded eyes narrowed slightly in calculation. "Is that who you want me to be?" She arched up again, as much as she was able. "I can be her for you, whatever you – "

One of his hands was around her throat before he was even aware of moving. Horror turned his blood to ice. "Shut up," he commanded, and squeezed. "You have no right. No right..."

Margie had been beautiful, inside and out. Warm and funny and kind and Steve owed her so much and this viper thought she could just...thought it would be _acceptable_ to pretend to be Margie to _negotiate_ her way out of the grave she'd dug for herself?

No. He wouldn't allow it. Hydra had already stolen Peggy from him, stolen Bucky, wrecked Steve's entire life and all his plans and turned him into someone his best friend couldn't even face. They couldn't take Margie from him too.

"You have no fucking _right_ ," he repeated and squeezed again, ignored the rasps and desperate wheezes and thrashing under him until it all stopped and the only sound in the room was his own harsh breaths.

***

_The sun was beating down on him, relentless and hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Seemed like everyone in Brooklyn'd had the same thought of heading to Brighton Beach to play in the water, get a little relief from the heat. Steve could feel his skin start to redden, but he stayed right where he was on the blanket, eyes on the three girls racing along the shore, splashing themselves and each other. Bucky would be back any second with their Cokes, but for now, watching over Becca, Al, and Gracie was his duty. If anything happened to any of them on his watch, he'd never forgive himself._

_"Stevie doll, watch this!" Alice cried, and flung herself back onto an oncoming wave._

_He jumped to his feet, ready to race to her side, pull her to safety, but she popped up, laughing and laughing, her sisters joining in, the bright sound carrying in the summer breeze._

_"Be careful, alright," he admonished, and sat back down, pressing a hand to his chest to try to still the wheeze he knew was coming._

_A shadow passed over him, and when he tilted his head up, Bucky was standing over him, holding out a bottle of Coke. His smile was just as bright as the sun overhead. "Thanks for keeping an eye out," he said, and settled next to Steve on the blanket._

_"Yeah, of course," he replied, with a shrug. But his thin chest puffed with pride all the same._

_"Becca, Al, Gracie," Bucky called, his voice nice and easy and firm, the voice of authority, of protection. "You got ten more minutes before we have to pack it in, alright. I promised Ma we'd be home in time to wash up for supper."_

_As one, they all turned and pouted. "Awww, Bucky! Pleeeeeaaase," Becca pleaded._

_Bucky nudged Steve's shoulder, light and friendly, and shook his head. "I'm a sucker if I give in, aren't I?"_

_"Yeah," Steve agreed, with a grin. The Coke was sweetly tart and cold and perfect. "But that's okay. You're allowed to be a sucker for family, I think."_

_"Yeah, you're right," Bucky said, and ruffled Steve's hair in an affectionate swipe. "Aright, fifteen, but that's my final offer."_

_Gracie whooped and wind-milled around in circles, her feet kicking up wet sand. Al ducked her head under the next wave, and came up laughing once again. Becca picked Gracie up and twirled her around, their delighted shrieks the best kind of music._

_Bucky and Steve just grinned and rolled their eyes at each other – _girls_ , they shrugged – before Steve took another bracing sip of his Coke. Chased the euphoric feeling with the taste of effervescent bubbles, his heart so full it felt like it could take flight. For once, his lungs felt clear._

_This is happiness, he thought. This right here is the best it's ever going to get._

 

The dream faded, as it always did, no matter how desperately Steve tried to hold on to it.

He blinked his eyes open. The passing scenery outside the train window had changed from crags and rolling hills to the thick green of the forest. He shifted in his too-small seat, trying to stretch cramped muscles. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but it was still light outside, so no more than a couple of hours. But, instead of feeling rested, he just felt exhausted.

And when he went to scrub a hand over his face to loosen the sleep grit from his eyes, his fingers came away damp.

***

_(Hong Kong)_

Steve pressed his thumb deeper into the wound, smiled in dark satisfaction at the choked, ragged gasp. "I'm not going to ask you again," he said, pleasantly.

The man tied to the chair – Damien Espinoza, coordinator for the former STRIKE team, and Brock Rumlow's immediate supervisor – lolled his head back. His nose was a bloody mess, his eyes were bruised, and he positively reeked of fear and stale sweat. Steve had already broken three of his fingers, had used the sharp edge of his knife to slide into vulnerable flesh, where he was still bleeding onto the carpet. "Cu' off one hea..."

"I know, I've heard the whole song and dance," Steve interrupted, and drove the blade in just above Espinoza's kneecap. Waited for the scream of pain to die down. "Here's the thing, though, Damien. It's just me and you here, not your organization, and they're not coming for you." He yanked on Espinoza's hair, waited until hazed eyes focused on him. 

"Fuckyou..."

"Yeah, that's not my style. And you're not my type," Steve said, and twisted his blade a few degrees, just to prove a point. "You tell me where Heyward is hiding and I'll make your death painless."

It was a lie, but Espinoza didn't need to know that.

The phone in Steve's back pocket buzzed once. Incoming text. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the other end of the room. 

He wiped his bloody hand on his jeans, pulled the phone out and looked at the text. _Knight to C3. Start writing your concession speech now._

It took him a second to remember where they were in the game. He'd need to position rook and king better – he always forgot how bold Bucky got the longer the match went on, the risks he took that always paid off. Bucky'd always been a master tactician. No matter how much Steve had studied, how many books he'd read, he'd never had that innate touch that Bucky'd had, seemingly without effort. 

Steve didn't even spare a look or a thought for Espinoza as he typed out a reply. _Can I text with my move later? In the middle of something._

_You good?_

Loaded question. There was nothing good about him these days. _Nothing I can't handle_ , he replied.

_Thor wants to know if his presence is required._

So Bucky was still with Thor, then. Steve breathed a small sigh of relief. There was no one he trusted more to have Bucky's back, if needed. _No, but thank him for me_ , he typed out. _Just a quick solo mission._

_Be careful. Watch your six._

Steve forced down the lump in his throat. Even half a world away, Buck was still looking out for him. _You too. I'll text back soon._

_No rush._

_You stay safe out there yourself,_ he replied, then put the phone back in his pocket.

Espinoza was right where Steve left him. Still slowly bleeding, still tied to the chair. Still glaring at Steve out of puffy, bruised eyes, hatred pouring off of him in waves. A hatred Steve welcomed with open arms. It was nothing compared to the rage Steve felt.

He strolled back over, crouched down in front of the chair. Twisted the knife again, and smiled when he got another bitten off scream in response. 

"Now," he said, smile turning dark. "Where were we?"

***


	8. (Part VIII – "The World Has Changed")

James stood on the shaded sidewalk in front of the small house on the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico, and heard the echo of old screams. The target had been a level six, some scientist who'd turned down Hydra's invitation to join their ranks. She'd thought – foolishly – they would respect her choice and let her go on her way. Instead, the Winter Soldier had been deployed for the sole purpose of making her an example. A warning to all who thought they could refuse Hydra's offer and live to tell the tale.

He'd taken the order without question, obedient to the end, the perfect soldier. The perfect killing machine, just as they'd programmed him to be. Waited and did recon for four days before making his shot. The hardest part had been deciding how to kill her to spread maximum fear among the masses. In the end, he'd decided to not only take her out, but her entire family as well. Husband, two kids, the dog, all as they'd sat down in the dining room for supper. All of them dead, each from a perfect head shot, within seconds of each other. He remembered feeling nothing except the cool satisfaction of a job well done. 

Even now, it was hard to dredge up anything other than a hollow echo of grief for the lives that had been cut short. Shouldn't he feel more guilt, more remorse? Shouldn't he feel horrified at what he'd done, ashamed of himself for all of the blood on his hands? Maybe Hydra really _had_ broken him. Broken his spirit and morality and emotions along with everything else.

"I'm sorry," James said aloud, and that part, at least, was true. He _was_ sorry. Sorry an innocent family got put in Hydra's crosshairs, sorry Hydra had used him time and again to carry out their orders, sorry he'd obeyed every order without question. 

He _was_ sorry, but his remorse wouldn't bring anyone back. All of the grief and guilt in the world wouldn't put anything back to rights. It wouldn't raise the dead, and it wouldn't erase the terrible and horrific things he'd done, or all the ways Hydra had used him for their own means and ends.

Going down this path – retracing his steps and his kills and his past sins – was a waste of time. He didn't need to be here in this spot to remember Dr. Hanin, or what her broken, lifeless body had looked like when it had hit the table. Didn't need to retrace his steps in order to see the blood he'd spilt or hear the death rattles from all of his victims. Every time he so much as closed his eyes, every person who'd died by his hands was right there, accusing him with blank eyes and silent judgment.

He knew there was no act, no penance he could make, that would atone for what he'd done. The only thing he could do was to be _better_ , become someone better, someone more than the sum of all the bloody parts he'd been before. Someone he could be proud of. Someone his family – someone _Steve_ – could be proud of. 

Steve, with his inexplicable faith, and his unconditional friendship. Steve, who answered every text, every call, with nothing except warmth. Who was still with him in all the ways that mattered, even though they were separated by however many miles.

James wanted – desperately – to one day be worthy of that faith and that friendship.

He wondered if he'd always felt this way, or if this feeling was something new. Had he always had that need inside of him to be the man he saw reflected in Steve's eyes? Was that the fuel that had driven him before, in the nebulous memories of his pre-War life that still came upon him without warning? To be worthy of Steve's friendship, to be the hero who did the right thing, fought the fight of the righteous, and walked the path of the brave? To make the sisters and family he still couldn't quite remember proud, to feel the expectations on his shoulders and willingly bear them – not an anchor, but a foundation upon which he'd built his life.

His sisters and parents were long since gone, but Steve was still here. Had sat across from him in a deserted diner and looked at him like he could be anyone he wanted. Like he was still someone worth saving. Like he was _still_ a hero, even after all the unforgivable things he'd done.

Steve was still out there, doing good. Still trying to make a difference, make the world safe and free for everyone. And, while James wasn't sure he'd ever be able to pick up a weapon again if it wasn't in self-defense, it didn't mean he couldn't do what he could in his own way to make sure he left the world a better place than how he found it.

There was nothing James could do to make up for his deeds as the Winter Soldier, the Asset. But he _could_ stop wallowing in that part of his past. Stop letting it define who he was now. Who he was trying to become.

"Enough," he said, and took in a deep, cleansing breath. 

_Enough_.

He turned and left the house behind. He didn't look back.

***

When James made his way back to the Historic District, he found Thor right where he'd left him. Sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the café where they'd had breakfast, sprawled easily in his chair, and watching the people walk by him with an unabashed curiosity. Something about Thor's unbridled enthusiasm and delight in everyday life was a balm to the senses, slowed everything down to manageable levels. Thor, who still hadn't pushed him or expected anything of him other than his continued presence.

Thor's grin widened as James drew nearer. "There you are, my friend. Did your errand bring you any comfort?"

James took the opposite seat. Thor hadn't even questioned his need to go visit the house by himself, nor had he tried to talk James out of it, tell him it was a bad idea. Instead, he'd solemnly nodded and told James to take his time paying his respects. Like he'd understood exactly what James was doing, and why.

Perhaps he did. They still hadn't really talked a lot about Thor's past or his family, but James had gleaned enough from the hints Thor had dropped, and from the files and articles he'd perused on his phone late at night when avoiding sleep seemed like the more prudent choice. Crown Prince of the Nine Realms, birthed to rule over entire planets, a fierce, well-respected warrior and a proud man. Thor was someone who'd led countless battles, seen so much death and destruction and violence. Had orphaned children and widowed spouses, and knew the full weight of taking a life and what it cost the soul.

"Not really," James answered, meeting compassionate blue eyes with his own. "But it did bring some clarity."

"That's good," Thor replied, and his smile eased, became something intimate and compellingly beautiful. "Clarity is a fine thing indeed."

"It is. But I don't think I'm going to visit any more kill sites." There, he'd said it out loud. Made it official. _His_ choice. He could do that now.

He drummed his fingers on the table, taking idle delight in the way the sun glinted off the metal. He supposed there were some who would tell him he should be ashamed of his arm and all the destruction it had caused, but he wasn't. He loved its strength and agility, its lightness and how easily he could move it. Hydra may have given him this arm, but it was _his_. He'd made it his own. It was no longer a weapon.

"Alright." Thor accepted the choice easily, without question.

"No clue what the hell I should be doing with my time now, though," he continued, and smiled, rueful. "I'm not ready to go back to New York." Not just yet. Maybe not for a long while. Wasn't sure he'd ever want to take up arms again or fight, not even under Steve's command. He still had no desire to hurt anyone. He'd defend himself, but he was finished killing on anyone's orders, even if the orders were his own or Steve's.

"Plans are also fine things," Thor said, with a nod. "Having them can also bring you that clarity, and a sense of purpose and fulfillment. But there is also a great deal of joy to be found in not having a destination. One of your Midgardian poets, in fact, spoke of the beauty of life being in the journey."

" _If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads_ ," James recited softly, then blinked. Where had he read that? Why did that phrase seem so familiar? He remembered it being whispered in darkness by a feminine voice. His mother? His sisters? Steve's mother? Peggy? "Sorry, I don't remember how I know that."

"It matters not how." Thor beamed at him, warmer than the sun. "You've stated precisely what I mean."

"And what will you do now?" James asked, curious. They'd only ever discussed Thor accompanying him as far as New Mexico.

"I have no pressing plans of my own," Thor replied. "And I find your company to be pleasing. We could continue on together, if you'd like. There is still much of your world I've yet to discover."

"But why? I think I've already proven I'm not the best company, conversation-wise." In fact, this was probably the longest one they'd had since the night at Stark's place in Malibu. They'd spent the better part of the last two weeks camping and exploring the Grand Canyon mostly in shared silence.

A pained look crossed Thor's face. "Perhaps I'm in the mood for something simple. There are times when words are simply a pretty shell masking an ugly truth," he said, then exhaled. "But that is a story for another time and another place. Right now, the sun is shining and this city has a vibrancy to it that I quite enjoy. Would you care to explore it with me?"

A story for another time. James could hear the pain and regret, and inwardly winced. Whatever the story was, he didn't think Thor would enjoy the telling of it.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "Exploring sounds...interesting." The reply came easier than he thought. He was trying to be a different person now, right? Spontaneity seemed to be a thing he should embrace. Plus, he got the feeling Thor needed a friend right now.

"Are you up for a short drive?" Thor asked. "I've been told the best ice cream in the entire state is just to the north of us."

"Ice cream, huh?" James asked, with furrowed brows. He was sure he'd had ice cream before. But he couldn't remember it or what it tasted like. "I don't remember if I like it or not."

"Then today is an excellent day to find out." Thor stood, made a sweeping courtly bow. "Shall we?"

"Sure," James replied, touched and more than a little charmed by the gesture. Thor was the most fascinating mix of old-world politeness and coltish zest for life. No wonder Steve liked and trusted him so much. James could have done far worse for a companion. "Why not?"

***

Taos Cow didn't look like much from the outside. A squat, nondescript brown building, with a side porch, some faded bench seats out front, and a corrugated roof that looked made of tin. James eyed the place warily, and shot Thor a disbelieving look. "You sure you got good intel?" he asked, dubious. He was surprised the place hadn't been shut down for health violations, to be honest.

Thor clapped him on the back and grinned, wide and showing off twin dimples on either side of his mouth. "Has no one ever told you not to judge a book by its cover, my friend?"

He recalled skinny limbs and lanky blond hair ( _"What'd you tell her about me?" "Only the good stuff_ "), the memory there and gone in a flash. But even as quick as it had come and vanished, he knew that voice. That face. Steve Rogers had once been a short, skinny weakling with a myriad of health issues and no one willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And no one outside of Bucky and his family who'd ever seen the fierce, loyal, great man hiding right in plain sight.

Somehow, he got the feeling that people _still_ didn't see the real Steve these days. Only now, instead of dismissing him because of his short stature or poor health, all they saw was Captain America.

"Point taken," James said, rueful and abashed, and followed Thor inside the shop. There was a marble-topped purple counter to their left and behind it, about a dozen brightly decorated chalkboard menus on the walls. The bored-looking teenage girl looked up from her phone when the bell above the door jangled, and her eyes widened, jaw dropping.

"Oh my God, you're – holy _shit_."

"Good afternoon, milady," Thor said, with a smile. He wrapped a strong arm around James' shoulders, and hauled James against his side like he weighed nothing. "My compatriot and I have heard many tales about the wondrous flavors of ice cream you have on offer. What would you recommend?"

She floundered for a minute, then shoved her phone into the front pocket of her apron and blinked big, disbelieving eyes at them. "Um...have you...okay, look, I gotta ask. You _are_ Thor, right? Like, from the planet Asgard, Avengers Thor?"

Thor nodded once. Regal, the nod of a king. "I am indeed."

"Oh my _God_ , Casey is going to have a shit fit that she wasn't here. She, like, worships you. Hey, you mind if I get a selfie?"

"Certainly." Thor gestured for her phone, and stepped away from James. He didn't mind admitting he missed the warmth, the simple human contact. Perhaps this was something else worth exploring.

She scrambled around the counter and Thor pulled her in for a couple of quick pictures. He certainly seemed to know his way around an iPhone. James wondered if this was a common occurrence for him, and if Steve had to endure the same recognition and level of fame. He thought about the kind woman at the diner back in Texas, about her awed reaction to Steve, and how quickly she'd tried to hide it behind that sunny smile of welcome. Thought about all of the footage and newsreels featuring Steve in his Captain America gear, offering soundbyte after soundbyte in a firm, clear voice.

"So, uh, thanks," the girl said, and took her phone back with another adoring look. "What, um, I'm sorry, what was it you were in the mood for again?"

"Ice cream." Thor gave James a quick wink. "My friend here would like to know your favorite flavors."

The girl tapped a bright pink nail against her lips. "Uh, well, we're kinda well known for our vanilla bean and our root beer floats and –"

Root beer floats. The name rang a distant bell. "Is that anything like a black cow?" James asked.

"Oh, it's the same thing," she replied, with a bright smile. "My grandma's the only one that says black cow though."

There was something there. A memory lurking just under the surface. So close he could almost see it. "I'll have one of those," he said. Obeyed the insistent voice in his head, the one he'd learned to trust.

"I will as well," Thor added.

"You sure about that? You don't even know what's in it."

Thor shrugged, unconcerned. "I trust your judgment."

"So..." The girl scooped out two generous servings of vanilla ice cream into two glasses, and glanced up. "If you don't mind me asking, uh, Thor – is it okay if I call you that? – what brings you to these parts? Everything's okay, right? No, like, bad guys or Hydra or aliens or anything weird or terrible in town?"

"No, your area is quite safe," Thor assured her. "My friend and I were simply passing through and thought we'd stop in for a treat."

"That's a relief." She grabbed a bottle of root beer, divided its contents between the parfait glasses, and put long straws and spoons in each. "You guys want whipped cream? My mom says it's sacrilegious to put it on floats, but some people seem to like it. It's homemade," she added, with a hopeful smile.

"Then we definitely want whipped cream," James said, and waited while she decorated the top with a large swirl.

Thor paid – "it's my treat, James, I insist" – and led James over to a long wooden table, then placed one of the glasses in front of him. "I'm afraid I don't know the etiquette involved in partaking of this dish."

James grabbed his spoon, dug out a large helping of ice cream. "Well, if I'm remembering right, you scoop the ice cream with the spoon first, then once everything melts a little bit, you can use the straw."

He took the first creamy, sweet bite, tasted the bitterroot aftertaste of the soda, and almost instantly, he was back in New York, with a much younger, much smaller Steve Rogers sitting on a stool beside him. They were both children, school-age (he wasn't sure exactly how old), and their legs dangled, not quite touching the floor. There was a parfait glass between them with two straws, and Steve had a white, foam ring around his mouth, and a grin that was bright and gap-toothed. 

He could hear high-pitched squeals and laughter coming from somewhere behind him, and he knew, instinctively, that he was hearing his younger sisters. They were in a booth with his parents and Steve's mom, the sound of their voices a pleasant background noise to his and Steve's conversation. He could feel the slow whir of the fan lazily moving overhead, hear the loud hum from the refrigeration unit behind the counter, tasted the heavy sweet ice cream on his tongue. Steve was pressed against him, small but solid, warm, a constant comfort. His best friend in the whole world.

"Are you alright?" Thor asked, and the memory faded out of view. 

"Alright?" James repeated, with a small frown. He was sure his confusion must have shown on his face, because Thor reached between them, trailed light fingers on James's cheek. When he pulled them back, James saw that they were wet.

He'd been crying. He was _still_ crying. "Oh," he said, and offered a thin, watery smile. "I was just...it was another memory."

"A good one?" Thor asked, concern shining out of his eyes.

James nodded. "Yeah. A real good one. New York way before the War, back when we were just kids. I was in a malt shop – Sal's Pharmacy, God, Steve and I went to school with Sal's kid, Luigi, he was one of the good guys – uh, anyway, I was with Steve and my family and his mom. I think it was after church – me and Steve were wearing slacks and nice shirts. We were sharing a black cow and making spit bubbles."

It was so vivid in his mind. The clearest memory of his childhood he'd had yet.

"Spit bubbles?" Thor inquired. "I'm not familiar with the term."

James let out a laugh, and scrubbed at his cheeks with his flesh hand. "Yeah, here, it's...it's easier to show you." He grabbed his straw, blew out, and bubbles sprang to the surface of the glass. "It's something Steve and I used to do a lot as kids. We thought it was funny."

Thor laughed, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, my brother and I also had the same sorts of games growing up." 

James took another bite of his ice cream, thought back over what he knew of Loki, what the press had reported, what his own research had discovered, and the few bits and pieces Thor had shared with him. A megalomaniac and a murderer, who'd led an invading army right to Earth's doorstep, but who'd died defending Thor against an even worse threat. 

"You still miss him?" he guessed, although it wasn't that hard to figure out.

"Every day," Thor told him. "He was...complicated. And not always kind. But then, neither was I. We did damage to each other in both word and deed over the years, but he was still my brother. That bond is not easily broken." 

"No, it's not." James thought back to Steve, who'd never given up on him, even after James had tried to kill him. Steve, who'd tossed his shield aside and had been willing to sacrifice himself if it meant James remembered him. Who'd never hesitated to answer any question, confirm any memory. His friend – the best man he knew – who was still out there, doing good, and making a difference in the world.

Sarah Rogers and James' own folks would be proud of everything Steve had accomplished. But as for him...the line wasn't so easy to draw. He had no doubts his family wouldn't blame him for what he'd been brainwashed into doing, but he was just as glad none of them were around to see what he'd become. If there was one silver lining to his long incarceration with Hydra, it was that – his parents and sisters all died thinking him a hero.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up memories you'd rather not recall," Thor said, with an apologetic look.

"You didn't. I was just thinking about Steve and how he's always been there for me. He's the only family I've got left."

"He values your friendship just as much," Thor told him. "You must know you mean a great deal to him."

"It's mutual." The old tug was still there as if it had never left. The urge to make Steve Rogers smile, to make him proud. In fact, now he was pretty sure he'd been born with that urge. Would go to his grave with it.

"Then hold onto it." Thor took a sip of his root beer. When he lowered the glass, his mustache had a ring of white foam around it from the ice cream. Just like the one Steve'd once had. Seeing it on Thor was...surprisingly endearing.

They finished their floats in easy silence, and Thor pushed his empty glass aside with a satisfied nod. "I quite like these root beer floats of your world. Thank you for sharing this delicacy with me."

"Wait'll you taste banana splits," James replied without thinking, then jerked his head up. Called out to the girl behind the counter, who was once again playing on her phone. "Ma'am, banana splits still exist, don't they?"

She glanced up with a puzzled frown. "You're kidding, right?"

"Just checking." He grinned at Thor. "Trust me, I may not remember a lot without help, but I definitely remember banana splits. And if you think root beer floats are good, just wait."

"I look forward to it," Thor replied, with his own sunny smile. "Perhaps that shall be our next quest."

"Finding the best banana split?" James asked. He could think of far worse things to do with his time. "Alright, you're on."

***

The highway was all but empty except for the occasional eighteen-wheeler passing by, the moon floating high up in the sky, surrounded by too many twinkling lights to count. James tilted his head back to get a better look, and wondered what life was like out there. What, if anything, was different or the same. Did those far off lands have war and strife and evil and people seeking redemption and their place in the world? Or had they evolved, moved on, and discovered a new plane of existence that didn't involve the messiness of frail, human emotions?

"All of those stars up there...how many of them are planets? Like, ones that can sustain life forms, I mean," he clarified, glancing over at Thor. "Have you been to all of them? Are there...there's got to be people or creatures or some form of intelligent life on a lot of them, right?"

"Many are planets, yes, and many of those planets also have intelligent life," Thor replied. He was still driving, despite James' offer to spell him when they'd left the ice cream shop. "You're curious about the other realms?"

"Maybe? If you wouldn't mind talking about it?" It still took some getting used to some days. The idea of expressing personal wants, personal desires not tied to a mission or mark. The idea that he was free now to pursue any interest, any whim. That he could try to find the answers to any of his questions.

"Not at all," Thor replied, glancing at him briefly with a smile. "It would be my pleasure. Do you have any specific questions?"

"I'd like to know more about the Bifrost." During one of his sleepless nights, he'd read the paper Dr. Jane Foster had written after her first encounter with Thor, and had been fascinated by how the Bifrost actually worked. "That's what you call it, right? How you're able to travel across the galaxy? It's...it's a type of wormhole?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"So how does that work? Aren't wormholes unstable?" That...sounded right, although he couldn't say how he knew that. Maybe research for a mission involving a scientist of some sort? Although, it felt older somehow. From the still nebulous _before_.

"You sound like Jane," Thor said, sounding pleased. "She's spent the last few years studying the Bifrost and what your scientists call the Einstein-Rosen Bridge."

"Yeah, I read her paper. My files – the ones I recovered from Hydra – said I used to be good at math and science. That I had an aptitude for engineering and figuring out how things all fit together. It'd be nice to...see if that still holds true." He'd been able to follow Dr. Foster's hypotheses with no problem, so maybe that was a good sign. Even if he did have all of this scientific knowledge in his head because Hydra had put it there, he could choose to use it for another purpose now. Something more interesting.

"Midgardian science is quite different in many ways than the science on Asgard, but I will be happy to answer any questions you might have. Steven and I have spent many evenings poring over journals and websites to familiarize ourselves with your technology."

James could see that. Steve, doggedly determined to catch up on all he'd missed, to master every bit of new tech he could lay his hands on. Steve had always been a fast learner. Had James been like that with Steve, back in their youth? Had they read through scientific journals and magazines and discussed the latest discoveries, asked their teachers endless questions? There was still so much he didn't know about his pre-War past, so much he couldn't remember. He knew he could ask Steve, but somehow, it still felt like cheating. He needed to figure out who he was without that crutch. That was the entire reason he'd turned down Steve's offer to go back with him in the first place.

And yet. 

He couldn't deny that every text and call, every sketch Steve sent him of people they used to know, every memory they shared, sent a bolt of longing through him. To dig deeper, reacquaint himself with James Buchanan Barnes, the one Steve knew so well. To know _Steve_ the same way. They were each slowly learning each other all over again, but somehow, it didn't seem like it was enough.

"Can you –?" James licked dry and cracked lips, tried again. "Will you tell me about him?" 

It would be nice to hear about Steve from someone who knew him as he was now. Who didn't have any history or memories or expectations about what Captain America was supposed to be, how he was supposed to act. Someone who was close to Steve as a person, a friend. Who knew him as both the shield, as well as the man behind it, and respected both. 

"Steven?" Thor asked, with another quick glance. He didn't act surprised at the abrupt change of topic. His hands were nice and easy on the steering wheel. Thor had nice hands, like Steve's. The hands of an artist, a protector. Nothing at all like James' own – both flesh and metal, rough and scratched and callused all to hell, made for war and death.

"Yes." James half-twisted so he could watch Thor's shadowed profile. "I remember him – I remember _some_ things about him. But I don't know him. Not how he is now. I mean, I'm learning to, but, I think he's different with me than he is with everyone else."

"I understand," Thor replied. "You've both gone through much and changed in many ways. This curiosity you feel about how he's changed is natural."

"Good to know," James replied, and meant it. His barometer on normal wasn't exactly in working order these days.

"Steven and I have worked very closely together the last couple of years. He is a fine leader and I consider him a dear friend. I would be honored to answer any questions you might have."

He had so many of them – he could feel them bubbling up, all of them vying for attention. It was hard to know where to start. So he went with the simplest. "What's he like?"

"He's a good man. Good, but by no means simple. He's smart, and eager to learn. Clever in mind and possessed of a keen and quick wit. He's also quite stubborn –"

"That much I _do_ remember," James cut in, dryly.

"Yes, I suppose it is his most defining trait," Thor agreed, with a small grin. "He's curious about the Nine Realms, and about the ways Midgard has changed. He's a fine warrior as well. His victories in battle are lauded and worthy of song."

James thought about the night they'd spent in Texas, and Steve's quiet desperation. His almost palpable grief and despair. Thought about every phone call, the weariness he heard in Steve's voice, the exhaustion Steve couldn't quite mask. "Is he happy?"

"No," Thor replied, no hesitation. James was grateful for the immediate honesty. "There's a deep well of sadness within him. He tries to hide it, but it lingers in everything he says and does."

"Is it because of me?" Guilt, a very familiar feeling, sat leaden in his belly.

"I do not know. Although, it's not a stretch to imagine. From our conversations, it's clear he feels no small amount of responsibility for your...current circumstances."

"He shouldn't." James' hands curled into impotent fists. "It wasn't his fault."

"No, it wasn't," Thor agreed. "But, as we agreed, he is stubborn."

Stubborn and self-sacrificing. Had he always been like that or was that something the serum had amplified? 

"But his sadness isn't all due to you, I don't think," Thor continued. "The Lady Carter's illness also plays a role. He seems more subdued than usual after his visits with her."

Lady Carter. Peggy. Acerbic, quick-witted Peggy, with her red lipstick that she'd worn like a suit of armor, boasting a right hook that could fell a man twice her size, and who had a knack for planning missions that General MacArthur himself would have envied. Peggy and James had been co-conspirators, their friendship born of mutual respect and a shared goal in making sure Steve wasn't pushing himself or anyone else too hard. Steve's best girl, the one Steve was certain he was going to marry when the War was over. Oh sure, they hadn't exchanged rings or promises – there was a war to win and no one knew what the future would hold – but everyone had known. They could all feel the electricity in the air whenever Steve and Peggy were in the same room together.

"That...makes sense," he finally said. "She was...he thought the sun rose and set on her, and the hell of it was, he wasn't wrong. She was...it's weird, because I can't really remember my own mother, but I remember Peggy Carter. We were all a little bit in love with her, but she only had eyes for Steve." 

And rightly so, he thought. He'd been so proud that someone finally saw the same Steve Rogers he did. The scrappy kid from Brooklyn who hated bullies and had a heart of gold under all that bluster and anger at the world's injustices.

"Yes, Steve spoke of her in much the same way. I'm only sorry I never got a chance to know her."

"She'd have liked you." From everything James had read, she'd had a good life. A full life, one worthy of her and her talents and passions. "She would have made Steve very happy."

"He could be again," Thor replied. "Like your memories, happiness is something that takes time to regain. But both of you are deserving of it."

James snorted. "I can't even _remember_ the last time I was happy." 

"Then maybe you should put your focus there. Into ascertaining what makes you happy these days."

"Right now, I'd just settle for a single unprompted memory from my childhood. I can remember every single mission I went on for Hydra and Pierce, and my time during the War is coming back to me, but before that? Brooklyn, my family, Steve's mom, _Steve_ before he got the serum? It's all just glimpses, nothing really concrete. And I'm even more afraid that those glimpses are all I'm ever going to have. That I'll never regain who I used to be."

"If they are, then you must simply learn to make new memories. Your past does not define you, James, not any more than the present or future."

James scoffed, the sound ugly and grating even to his own ears. "You wouldn't say that if you knew –"

"I know a great many things about you," Thor stated, with another quick glance in his direction. His eyes were very blue, and very old. "You are not the only person who has done your homework. I know all about what Zola and Fennhoff did to you, what Hydra had you do in their name. How they erased your memories and free will, forced you to kill for them."

"Then you know that my past defines _everything_ about me." He would never escape his sins, no matter how long he lived. The specter of the dead loomed over him, a shadow he'd never outrun.

Thor was silent for a couple of miles. When he spoke again, his voice had a new weight to it, one James hadn't heard before. "You are familiar with the events that happened in New York the year before last? When my brother tried to take Midgard by force?"

"Yeah, of course." Where was Thor going with this?

"Are you aware of what my brother did to Clint Barton, the Avenger codenamed Hawkeye?"

James nodded, still confused. "Loki had a scepter of some sort, one that he used to take away the free will of anyone he touched with it. Used it on Hawkeye and Dr. Erik Selvig to coerce them into helping him create a portal that let the Chitauri into New York."

"A simplistic version of the truth, but good enough." Thor glanced at him again. "Do you blame Barton for the terrible deeds he committed while under my brother's control?"

"No, of course..." James trailed off. Frowned. A neat trap, and he'd fallen right into it. "It's not the same thing. I spent decades killing people. I took _pride_ in my accomplishments."

"You were not yourself."

"Tell that to all the victims and their loved ones."

Thor turned off the highway, followed the signs to a nearby motel. His voice was quiet, but carried that same weight that spoke of decades – of centuries – of hard-won, terrible knowledge. "Be careful that your guilt does not weigh you down so much you cannot move forward," he said.

James didn't have an answer. He wasn't sure there was one.

***

_The Dog Days of summer had taken over New York with a sticky hot vengeance, and maybe sitting outside on the fire escape wasn't doing much to combat the heat, but at least the breeze coming in from the river was nice. Hopefully they'd get some rain soon or something._

_Bucky looked up from reading his battered copy of_ Weird Tales _to nudge Steve, who was sprawled beside him, pencil in hand, scowling at his piece of parchment paper. "Sit up. If you sweat on it, you'll just smudge your lines."_

_"I know, but it's too hot to move."_

_"Yeah," Bucky drawled in sympathy. He didn't want to move himself. It he tried, he'd probably melt right through the iron bars and down to the sidewalk. "Hey, Steve?"_

_"Yeah, Buck?"_

_He tilted his face up to catch the latest gust of wind. "Whaddaya suppose the future'll be like?"_

_"I dunno." Steve impatiently pushed limp bangs back. His fingers were smudged black, left a mark on his forehead. "Hopefully we have robots."_

_"I want spaceships," Bucky pronounced. "Wouldn't it be swell to take one up to the moon?"_

_"Not much to do on the moon," Steve argued, but there wasn't any force behind it. "Although I bet it's cooler up there'n it is down here."_

_"Maybe there's a whole city or civilization up there just waiting for us to make contact," Bucky replied. As big as the moon was, there had to be life on it. He wondered if they had baseball on the moon, or any other sports. "That'd be something."_

_"It sure would," Steve agreed, not really paying attention anymore. He was bent back over his sheet of paper, the pencil scratching over it as he pursed his lips in concentration._

_Bucky carried on, undeterred. He knew Steve was listening, despite evidence to the contrary. "And I could write all about it and you could draw it all up for the rags. We'd be explorers, that'd be totally jake."_

_"Sounds good, Buck."_

_The first ever explorers on the moon. Now that was a dream worth having._

***

Sleep was once again elusive. James gave it up for a lost cause just before dawn. It was too early to knock on Thor's door and wake him up, and it wasn't like they had a schedule they were trying to keep. Instead, James grabbed his running shoes and a serviceable pair of sweats and a tee, and set out along the empty stretch of road. 

It was easy to settle into a rhythm. His feet pounded along the pavement, every breath was nice and even, every muscle working in perfect synchronicity. The human body, the true perfect machine. He couldn't remember if he'd ever been a runner before, back when he'd been Bucky Barnes – and the only running he'd ever done for Hydra had been during training or on missions – but he could get used to this. To the fresh air and purity of movement, to the simple satisfaction of going one mile, then another, then another.

He was on his way back to the motel, the sun well up over the horizon, when his phone rang. He had no idea how far he'd gone already – eight miles, or maybe nine – so he settled into an easy jog and hit the answer button.

"Buck?" Steve asked.

"You were expecting someone else?" James chuckled, side-stepping a pothole in the road. 

"No, uh, it's just...what the hell are you doing? Your breathing is all off."

"Uh, running?"

"Are you okay? Where's Thor? Should I call for backup?"

"No, I'm _running_ ," James emphasized, and slowed to a walk so he could keep a better handle on the phone. Maybe it was time to invest in a wireless headset. "For exercise, to clear my head. No one's chasing me."

" _Oh_. Oh, um, okay." Then Steve let out an abashed chuckle. "Sorry, I guess I'm a little on edge right now."

James could hear it in Steve's voice, in the brittle hitch in his breath. That same feeling of helplessness washed over him. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Tell me about your day?"

"Yeah, sure," James replied, then drew a blank. It wasn't like a lot had happened since they'd last talked, aside from James' decision not to retrace his old missions. And somehow, he got the feeling that wasn't a good topic to bring up right now. "Uh, well..." _Think, James, something happy_ "...I think I had my first root beer float in over seventy years yesterday."

"Holy... Wow, that's...that's amazing."

"It was incredibly amazing. Place looked like a stiff breeze could blow it down, but the ice cream was rich and creamy, and the whipped cream was homemade. If you're ever in Taos, I highly recommend checking out Taos Cow."

"Whipped cream? _You_ had whipped cream on your float?" Steve laughed again. "That's...wow."

"Good wow or bad wow?"

"Different wow," Steve told him. "You, well, you used to be very vocal about how whipped cream on floats was wrong in every way."

"If it _was_ wrong, it was delicious tasting wrongness, so I guess I'm alright with it these days," James said, hoping Steve could hear the smile in his answer. "We used to have them after church, right?" 

"Every Sunday until the Depression really hit," Steve confirmed. "Sometimes we had to wait for a big enough booth or table, but summer Sundays after church weren't Sundays at all without root beer floats from Sal's. Our moms – God, I haven't thought about this in years – but they used to say that sometimes they thought the only reason we behaved at all during Father O'Malley's sermons was because of the promise of them."

James could see it. He and Steve, and his family and Steve's mom, all sharing a pew, he and Steve trying to keep still, knowing their reward for good behavior. And later, at Sal's, all of them crowded together in a booth, his sisters with their heads bent over a straw, all three of them sharing a large glass. Him and Steve grinning at each other with milk mustaches. Knees knocking together, heads bent close as they whispered secrets, using code words only the two of them knew. Their moms staring down at them with fond smiles.

"Can you...do you mind?" he asked, quietly. "Can you tell me about it?"

"Going to Sal's or Sunday church?" Steve asked. "Because, I gotta say, I don't really wanna think too much about Father O'Malley right now."

"Why not? Was he strict?" He couldn't recall what Father O'Malley even looked like, let alone his personality.

"No stricter than most other priests back then, I guess," Steve replied. "But I meant – I'm just not sure he'd have anything good to say about what I've been doing with my time these days, so I'd rather not think about him. That's all."

"You? You mean me, right?" James said as he crossed the street. He could see the hazy outline of the motel up in the distance. "I'm the one with the blood of innocent people on my hands, not you." Steve was the one righting all the wrongs of the world before breakfast – Heaven would be lucky to have him when the time came.

Steve was quiet for a few long beats. "Maybe neither of us is making it past the Pearly Gates."

"Yeah, maybe," James mused. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I gotta believe there's some sort of way I can atone or redeem myself, that there's something I can –"

"Bucky, no, you're." Steve's voice broke, but he pressed on, in a choked voice. "That's not what I meant. You...I know you don't remember, but you were the best out of all of us. Hydra, Zola, Pierce – they all tried, okay, but they couldn't burn that light out of you. You gotta remember that."

"All I remember right now is you were just as good," James replied, his own throat tight. "Maybe even better. So I don't wanna hear any more about what Saint Peter may or may not judge you for or what some long dead priest I don't even remember might think. I know what I fucking know, and I _know_ you're a good man."

"You always were determined to see the best in me," Steve chuckled, the sound thin, but real.

"I think that's probably always gone both ways, don't you?" James slowed as he got to the mostly deserted motel parking lot. He could see Thor sitting on the hood of the car, dressed and ready to go. His hair was tied back off his face, and he was wearing a pair of jeans that made his legs look a mile long. Every time he tossed the keys up in the air, the silver of them glinted in the sunlight. 

Thor smiled and waved, but James couldn't summon the smile back. For a brief moment, he wanted to ask Thor to use that magic hammer of his to fly him to Steve's side. Wanted to swoop in and fix whatever was wrong, wanted to offer to fight whatever demons were bringing Steve down.

"Steve, are you there?" he asked, when he was met with silence.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here," Steve said, in a dull voice. He sounded much too tired lately. "But I think I might try to get some shut-eye. You, um...I'll talk to you later? I promise, I'll tell you all about Sal's next time."

"Sure, that's...whenever you want." He reminded himself that he couldn't fight Steve's battles, no matter how much he wanted to. Steve had to find his own way, just as James did. "I'll be around."

"Thanks. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

 _Be safe out there,_ he thought, even though he had a feeling Steve wasn't too concerned these days with safety.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the incredible art [Nevenne](nevenne-creates.tumblr.com) did for this chapter!!!! I am so in awe!!!!!
> 
> [https://nevenne-creates.tumblr.com/post/164301240230/](https://nevenne-creates.tumblr.com/post/164301240230/the-pained-guilty-look-on-buckys-face-still)


	9. (Part IX – "The Truth Is A Matter Of Circumstance")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Petite-Madame for the French translation in this part! :)

_(Hanoi)_

The second Steve turned off the faucet, Huang started sputtering and spitting, coughs wracking his thin frame. Steve gave him about ten seconds - enough to get a taste of sweet oxygen in his lungs - before shoving him under the faucet again. One hand kept Huang in place while the other rested on the water tap. 

"You ready to tell me what I want to hear, or do we go another round?” he asked.

“Pl-please,” Huang rasped, barely audible. His eyes were screwed shut and bruised from where Steve had backhanded him earlier. “Please…”

Steve slammed Huang's forehead against the porcelain. “I warned you about begging,” he said, and yanked Huang backwards towards the kitchen. Huang had an impressive set of chef's knives that Steve thought would do the job just fine.

***

Almost four hours later, he returned to the small, squalid room he was renting, ready for a long shower and to faceplant for a few hours. He'd already set JARVIS to work on compiling the list of names Huang had given him. Not as many as Steve had hoped for, but still more than enough to go on.

But when he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he found Natasha sitting on his bed. "Hi honey," she said, and gave him a full-lipped smile. "Take a shower. We need to talk."

He stopped. He'd been extremely careful about covering his tracks. "How did you find me?"

The look she gave him was worthy of Sister Lorraine at Holy Trinity back in Brooklyn. "I'm insulted you'd ask."

"Right." What the hell was he thinking? Natasha was the best at what she did for a damn good reason. "Sorry," he offered. He raked a hand through his hair, and frowned when he pulled away bits of blood and gristle and brain matter. "Give me five minutes."

"Take ten," she said, with a pointed look at his clothing and the dark spatters from where he'd more or less accidentally, but really on purpose, opened an artery. The mess had been worth it to hear Huang's high-pierced screams of pain. 

But he was definitely going to need to buy some more shirts. So far, he'd ruined at least a dozen. (It would be money well spent.)

He felt marginally better after he'd cleaned up, and walked, naked, back into the bedroom to pull a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his duffle. Natasha didn't remark on it – they'd seen each other in various states of undress at least a hundred times over by now. "I don't suppose you brought food with you," he asked. Now that he felt a little more like a person, he realized he was famished.

"We can go out for something after we've talked." She patted the space next to her. "I like the beard, by the way. It's a nice touch."

"Thanks." He rubbed a hand over his face, sat on the bed. Resisted the urge to lay back and close his eyes. He was so fucking tired. "Still getting used to it," he added. She didn't need to know that he had trouble recognizing his own reflection these days.

"You've been busy lately," Natasha remarked, studying him out of cool green eyes. "Following the trail of bodies you've been leaving behind has been...illuminating. You're getting quite inventive. Part of me can't help but be proud that you took all of my lessons to heart."

Steve's spine stiffened. "I don't know what you –"

She waved a hand. "Save it. I'm not going to rat you out to the UN Security Council or the Geneva Convention. I'm sure you have your reasons for killing everyone instead of calling us to have them brought in for questioning."

"It's not what you think," he weakly replied, even though he knew she knew he was lying.

She offered a rare, genuine smile. "Really? And what is it that I think?"

He should have known better than to try to get into a battle of wits with her. "Fine, it's exactly what you think," he admitted. "But if you're here to bring me in to answer for what I've done, I hope you brought a lot more in the way of backup."

He _wasn't_ going back until his work was finished and Hydra was eliminated.

"I'm not here to bring you in," she said. "But, as someone who considers you a friend, I should point out that you're not cut out for this. What you're doing...the road you're on? At a certain point, there's no coming back from it."

He balled his hands into fists. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I don't _want_ to come back."

She sighed hard enough to ruffle her bangs. "Torture and murder aren't your specialties, Cap."

He flinched. "Don't call me that." 

He wasn't a captain of anything, not out here. Maybe not ever again. He was under no illusions that he'd be facing a court-martial or worse once he came back into the fold. _If_ he ever came back into the fold. He could probably spin some of his kills as justifiable homicide to a jury, but he'd certainly never be allowed to take up the shield or be part of the Avengers again.

He still wasn't sure how he felt about it, either. 

"You're still Captain America, you know," she said, almost as if she could read his thoughts. She probably could – there was a reason she was a legend among legends. "You're still one of us as long as you want to be."

"Even after everything I've done?" he scoffed. She couldn't possibly think he was naïve enough to fall for that.

"We've all got red in our ledger," she told him. "But it's time for you to stand down and let the rest of us take over." She placed a soft hand over his fist, the touch burning like a brand. "Your war is over."

_I might even, when this is all over, go dancing... We can go home, Steve. Imagine it._

An old dream, an old nightmare. Peggy Carter, young again and vibrant and so beautiful she seemed to shine from within. Standing in front of him in a beautiful green dress, her hair and makeup pristine, with that full-lipped smile she reserved only for him. The band playing a slow tune, and her with her hand stretched out towards him. Waiting. Forever waiting for their dance.

He shook his head to dispel the image. He wondered when it would ever stop hurting to think of her, of what they might have had. _If only, if only._

"No, it isn't," he argued, focusing on the here and now. "My war will never be over. Not as long as there's still a single person standing who knew about...who stood by and allowed Bucky to be used, manipulated, brainwashed into forgetting who he was, where he'd come from…” It was so hard to breathe right now. “They tarnished _everything_ Peggy worked so hard to build. I can't let them get away with that."

"Stand down, soldier," Natasha repeated. Soft. Insistent. An order Steve couldn't obey.

"I don't know _how_." He dug his nails into the vulnerable skin of his palms hard enough to draw blood. "This is all I fucking have, Nat. And I won't let you or anyone else take this from me."

She opened her mouth like she wanted to argue, then let out a full bodied sigh. Rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Then, at least let me help you," she said, softly. "You're going to get yourself killed at the rate you're going, and I don't want to be the one to have to tell Barnes when that happens."

 _Bucky._ His breath spasmed again. His heart clenched. Bucky, who was out there trying to discover who he was, who couldn't even be in the same _room_ as Steve. Who'd set out on his own, because he'd known – somehow, Bucky had known or sensed how broken and damaged Steve was, and knew he couldn't be a part of it.

 _The answers I need...you don't have them._

At least Bucky had Thor now. Someone worthy. Someone who _could_ be there for him, who could help Bucky in ways that Steve couldn't. _I'm sorry, Bucky_ , Steve thought. _Sorrier than you'll ever know for all I can't be for you. But I can at least give you this. Give you the vengeance you won't seek._

He'd let Bucky down once, and the world had suffered unfathomably as a result. How many people had Hydra killed, how many lives and families had they twisted and wrecked in their insidious quest for power? How much blood was on Steve's hands because of his failure to protect the most important person in his entire world?

He couldn't let it happen again.

"Trust me, I don't think he'd mourn me as much as you think," he said after a minute. 

In fact, if Bucky knew what was good for him, he'd stop calling and texting. Stop answering Steve's calls and texts. He'd stop letting himself get tainted by the darkness swallowing Steve whole. Bucky was on a different path now, a lighter path. One he'd more than earned, more than deserved. Days spent exploring national landmarks and rediscovering his joy for the little things in life, like root beer floats and a well-played game of chess.

"I don't think that's true," Natasha told him. "He's still your friend."

"If he was smart, he'd run as far from me as possible. I'm damaged goods, Nat."

"And you don't think he's not out there believing the _exact_ same thing about himself?" she asked. "You've said it yourself, more than once. You're both different now. And if you keep doing this, you might change in a way..." She paused, squeezed his fist. "You don't need to kill for him to show him you still care."

"Maybe not." God, he was so fucking tired. He felt like he could sleep for a week. "But I'm still not stopping until they're all dead."

"Alright." She lifted her head, her look cool and composed and filled with a scary sort of sympathy. "If that's how you truly feel, then I'm coming with you."

The last thing he wanted was for Natasha to compromise the life she was trying to build. "You don't want to do this." 

"No, I don't," she agreed in a mild voice. "But if you're bound and determined to go down this path, you're going to need help. You don't have to do this alone."

He knew he didn't. Knew he could have asked Nat to go with him in the first place, knew he could call Sam and Tony right now, assemble the Avengers and go after Hydra as a group. Raid bases and work with various governmental agencies to create an international task force to bring all those who still worked for Hydra to justice. But it wasn't justice he wanted. He'd tried that route after Erskine was murdered, and again after Bucky fell, and Hydra had flourished and thrived as a result. He was done with justice. 

This was payback for Zola, for Azzano, for the train, for a missed grab, for a missed dance, a missed _life_. 

He was tired of dreaming of Peggy, young and beautiful and laughing in his arms. Of Bucky, whole and smiling, without shadows or demons haunting him. Of the life they all could have had, if only. If only he'd been fast enough, strong enough, had done more. _Been_ more.

"On my own seems to have worked so far," he offered, with a shrug.

"Maybe it's just that you haven't wanted to look for other ways," Natasha said, the rebuke mild. 

"You're right," he admitted. "I haven't." 

She gave him a small smile, and nudged his arm with her own. "Good. It's good that you see that. There might be some hope for you after all, Rogers."

She was wrong. There really wasn't. But he didn't have the heart to say anything else.

"Anyway," she continued, "now that you're cleaned up, get dressed. We need to feed you, then get you fitted for a tux."

"What?"

She smiled and patted his knee. "There's more than one way to bring down Hydra."

***

"Relax," Natasha murmured, and tightened her hold on Steve's arm. She leaned in like she was brushing a kiss to his cheek. "Remember what I taught you."

He dropped his shoulders and pasted a smile on his face. His tux was superbly fitted, as was Natasha's floor-length strapless dress, but Steve's skin itched under it all the same. "This wasn't what I had in mind for my plans for tonight," he murmured back.

Diamonds glittered at Natasha's wrists, throat and ears. Her hair was swept up by a series of bobby pins, framed that lovely, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were smoky and smudged, her lips the same ruby red as her dress. She was a peacock among wrens, a show-stopper meant to be noticed. Meant to be _seen_. 

"Not all missions are about torture and inflicting pain," she told him, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter with a nod and a smile. "Sometimes you can get the information you need by employing a more delicate touch."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that delicate wasn't what he wanted. He wanted dead – wanted violence and bloody retribution. Wanted blood on his hands and screams echoing in his ears. He'd been created to be an instrument of war, after all.

"Delicate is more your skillset than mine," he said, and steered her through the crowded room with a gentle hand on the small of her back. Just another bored, rich couple looking for amusement. "You never did tell me how you managed to get us through the front door." Invitations to Madame Oya's parties were notoriously difficult to obtain.

She gave him a sunny, amused smile. "It's sweet that you think I'd tell you."

He offered his own smile, conceded the point. It didn't matter, not really. At least she'd gotten him close to another person on his never-ending list. “Do you have eyes on the target?"

Natasha nodded to the other end of the dance floor, by the stage where a string quartet was playing Mozart's greatest hits. "Seven o'clock, in the stunning blue Vera Wang."

It was, as Natasha noted, a _very_ stunning dress. Fit Madame Oya like a glove, was practically pouring over slender curves, and the midnight blue contrasted nicely with the lush fall of white-blonde hair. She was beautiful and alluring and she would have been exactly Steve's type, except for the evil financial mastermind part and how he wanted her neck between his hands, and not in a remotely seductive way. 

And, not to mention the part where he wasn't _her_ type in the slightest.

"Alright, so what do you need me to do while you're setting the honey trap?" he asked, leading Natasha around the room, playing the attentive date. Showing Natasha off just like they'd discussed. It wasn't the mission he would have chosen, but a plan was a plan and he had his orders.

"Nothing," she replied, after taking another sip of champagne. "Use tonight as an opportunity to brush up on your dancing skills, and your laughably bad flirting skills. You never know when you might need to use either."

"Nat..."

"All things to all people at any time," she reminded him. "You wanted to know my world, and this is part of it. It's not all stealth suits and wet work."

"Fine," he replied, through gritted teeth. He hated standing on the sidelines.

"Relax, it'll be fun," she said, with a laugh. "Now, be a dear and go get me another glass of champagne. But take your time about bringing it to me."

"Yes ma'am," he said, and bent his head, brushing a light kiss across her knuckles. Forced the smile when she winked at him, then glided towards the target like she was strutting across a catwalk. Every eye in the room lingered on her, including Steve's. 

It took her an hour, but Steve suspected she was drawing it out because it amused her to keep Steve waiting. He tried his hand at small talk, as suggested (because she was right, and who knew when this skill would become useful), but couldn't bring it in himself to ask anyone to dance. Maybe one day, he'd find someone he liked well enough to take for a spin, but he doubted it.

Mostly, however, he prowled the perimeter of the ballroom, getting a feel for the security measures and personnel. And watched while Natasha drew Madame Oya to her – a spider spinning her web – using flirtation and seduction as effortlessly as she did her widow's bites or a gun. Part of him envied the ease at which she operated, but most of him just itched with the need for a task. A _real_ mission. Give him a target and he could draw up a plan of attack and make it work. But he wasn't cut out for this life. For smiles that could double as weapons and flattery that cut sharper than a knife. For all that he'd been utilizing subterfuge and stealth these last few weeks, he was still a soldier at heart. 

He was still casing the exit points and scoping out security cameras when Natasha appeared beside him as if by magic. "I guess it's a good thing you're supposed to be playing the jilted date," she remarked, neatly plucking his untouched glass of champagne from his fingers.

"I was just stretching my legs," he replied, even though he knew she'd see right through the lie. "What's our status?" He didn't see Oya anywhere, but it was a big room and it was teeming with scores of brightly dressed guests. He'd overheard one of the guests telling another that Oya was planning on staying the night in one of the upstairs rooms, and that was all he'd needed to hear.

In answer, Natasha gave him a lingering kiss to the cheek. "We should probably make our regrets and leave before she discovers she's missing the flash drive in her purse," she murmured, the words barely loud enough for him to discern, even with his superior hearing. 

That was...easier than he'd expected. "Really?"

"Mmhmm," she said, and put her arm through his, gently steering him to the exit. "See, wasn't that easier than pulling out fingernails?"

"Sure," he replied, with a shrug. "Whatever you say."

***

The streets were all but deserted as Steve walked down the sidewalk, keeping careful pace so as not to draw any attention from anyone who might be watching from a nearby window. This part – blending in, making himself invisible – he had down to an art form, ingrained in him from birth. He was still itching with the need to hit something (or someone), but time and discretion had been of the essence. 

Severing Oya's carotid artery while she'd slept wasn't the slow, agonizing death she deserved for all the pain and suffering she'd caused, but it wasn't like he had much choice. He couldn't risk taking her anywhere off-site without alerting her considerable guard detail (just slipping past them to get into her room had been a challenge he never wanted to repeat), and even if he had been able to spirit her somewhere private, he still had Natasha to think of. For her, the mission had been completed the second she'd gotten the flash drive. And what she didn't know couldn't hurt her or come back to incriminate her. 

He was putting the key in the lock to his room when the door opened, revealing Natasha on the other side.

"Nice stroll?" she asked, cocking her head.

"Yeah," he replied, deciding to brazen it out. "Couldn't sleep." He moved past her into the room and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots.

"You injured?"

He set the boots aside and pulled off his hoodie. If she was going to break into his room, he'd be damned if he'd change anything about his routine to suit her. "Why would I be injured?"

She crossed her arms and stared him down, unblinking. A warrior to her very bones. "Don't test me. Is that your blood or not?"

He glanced down at his shirt. The spray had hit him square in the chest, and he hadn't had a lot of time to clean up after. "I'll be fine."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"I'll be fine," Steve repeated, cool and clipped, because two could play her game, and he didn't owe her or anyone else an explanation or a goddamn thing.

She sighed and joined him on the bed, her legs crossed. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face scrubbed clean of all the makeup. In her oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, she looked like she could be in college. Just another young, pretty girl. But the next words out of her mouth belied that image, showed it for just another mirage. "You didn't need to kill her, you know."

"And _you_ know I did," he replied. He just wanted to lie down and sleep, hopefully this time without any dreams. "I'm not interested in letting any of them weasel their way out of their crimes or buy their way out by bribing the right officials, or striking a deal and setting themselves up in some minimum-security prison."

"You're not helping anyone by going out there and trying to get yourself killed –"

"I had it under control."

"No, I don't think you did," she countered. 

"This is the _only_ way I can be sure none of them will try to come after Bucky."

"So you still think this is about him?" She gave him a skeptical look. "About keeping him safe?"

"I think that's reason enough." The less she knew his reasons the better. The less any of his friends knew, the less the blowback could hurt them.

"Redemption and salvation don't work like that, and you know it."

He made a scoffing noise. "That's fucking rich coming from you. There's a difference between keeping someone safe and saving them, and it sure as fuck isn't my job to save Bucky _or_ redeem him. He doesn't need it."

She poked him right in the chest. Right over his heart. "I'm not talking _you_ saving Barnes, Steve. I'm talking about _him_ saving _you_. About making sure there's still enough of you left in here to make it worth his while."

Then she got up and left the room before he could even formulate a response. He could only stare after her, dumbfounded. He was beyond saving now, if he'd ever been worthy of it in the first place.

***

_The pub was dimly lit due to the blackout restrictions, but that didn't matter to the raucous, laughing crowd inside. The piano player struck up lively tune after lively tune, sometimes urging everyone to sing along in loud, off-key voices. The barkeep hustled from one end of the bar to the other, refilling mugs with a ready quip and a smile, and the two serving girls circulating the room taking orders were both light on their feet and quick with a comeback. Outside, there were bombed out buildings and horrors both great and small, but inside this cozy nest, there was music and camaraderie, and the war seemed very far away._

_"You guys can beat Schmidt without me," Bucky declared, watching one of the girls weave her way around the tables to head back to the bar. He looked as rakishly disheveled as ever when he wasn't on active duty, tie loose and the top button of his shirt undone. "I'm staying right here until Maureen agrees to marry me."_

_"You're in for a long wait, then," Jim replied, lifting his beer mug Bucky's way in a toast. "I think every man here's asked for her hand already."_

_"Stevie, can you please let Jim know that I am not just any old uncouth gent trying his luck with the ladies?"_

_"He always had a gift for sweet talk. I haven't seen a dame say no to him yet," Steve commented, then turned wide, horrified eyes to Peggy. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to – I wasn't trying to –"_

_"All these months working together, and you're still so remarkably easy to fluster," Peggy remarked, with an amused smile. Unlike Bucky, she looked as sharp as a tack. Not a hair or button on her uniform out of place. "Was he always like this, James?"_

_Bucky shook his head, and drained his glass. "Only around every attractive woman in a ten block radius, ma'am. You're lucky he can finish his sentences around you. Alice is gonna be so disappointed none of her flirting lessons stuck."_

_"They might've gone over better if she and I had managed to keep a straight face," Steve replied, cringing slightly at the memory. Bucky's sisters trying to teach him how to compliment a woman had been, to put it bluntly, a disaster._

_"I know I wasn't the only one who was entertained." Bucky chuckled. "Thought Becca was going to have a fit."_

_Peggy shook her head. "I'm beginning to think your sisters must be saints.”_

_Bucky pressed a gallant kiss to Peggy's knuckles. "Peggy, my sweet, you don't even know the_ half _of it."_

_"Guess it's lucky for him that he looks like a matinee idol now," Dum Dum said, with a jovial laugh. "Who needs charm with a chest like that, am I right?"_

_"C'mon, guys, there's a lady present," Steve chided, stubbornly ignoring the blush he knew was on his cheeks._

_"She may indeed be a lady, but she's proven herself to be one of the chaps where it counts," Monty said, with his own raised glass. "Anyone that can match our Sergeant here for marksmanship has more than earned the right to hear a few ribald jokes."_

_"Hey now, she hasn't beaten me yet," Bucky said, setting his chair back on all four legs, suddenly all business._

_"_ Yet _," Peggy said, with another one of her small smiles._

_"I say we get Cap to judge the next contest," Gabe said._

_Steve immediately threw up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Oh no, I'm staying out of it."_

_"On ne peut quand même pas demander au Capitaine de choisir entre son meilleur ami et sa Dame!" Jacques piped in, and all eyes turned to Gabe for a translation._

_"He said we should have another push up contest instead, Peggy against Dum Dum this time," Gabe said, with a wink Jacques' way._

_"I'm game," Dum Dum stated._

_"As long as you're prepared to take your licking like a man, I'm in as well," Peggy replied, her prim tone a poor disguise for the competitive look in her eyes._

_"I got twenty on Peggy," Bucky said, and unfolded a bill to pass Steve's way._

_"Why am I the treasurer?"_

_"Because we can trust you not to spend it on cigarettes and liquor," Jim replied, and handed Steve his own crumpled twenty. "I gotta recoup my money from the last one, so I'm all in on the big guy."_

_Maureen came back with another round, and Bucky turned on the charm, paying her outrageous compliment after outrageous compliment, flirting up a storm as only he could. Peggy buried her smile in her glass, but when her hand found Steve's under the table, he took it with a private wink and a reverence he'd normally reserved for Sunday church._

_This is happiness, he thought, his heart so full not even his new larger chest could contain it. No matter what happens when the War is over, right now, I've never been happier._

***

Steve flung the sheet off with a muffled cry, and swung his legs to the floor. He buried his face in his hands, the tears lodging in his throat. He could hear the echo of old songs mingling with Bucky's laughter, taste the malt and hops from the beer on his tongue. The ghost-scent of Peggy's perfume hung in the air like mist.

"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud, even though he couldn't say why, or even who he was talking to. Himself, maybe? Bucky? Peggy? "I'm so sorry."

 _I'm doing this for you_ , he thought, even though he was lying to them, to himself, to everyone.

The ringing of his phone was unnaturally loud in the crouching, oppressive stillness, and he snatched it off the bedside table, swiping answer before he even looked at the number. "This is Steve."

"Fuck, I woke you," Bucky – the real Bucky – said, apologetic. "I keep forgetting you said you were out of the country again."

"It's alright." Steve scooted back on the bed, propped his back up with the pillows. "I was actually awake."

"You sure? You sound a little wrecked."

 _If only you knew how close you were to the truth_ , Steve thought. "Maybe I was dozing," he said, the half-lie falling easily off his tongue. Too easily. Once upon a time, the idea of lying to Bucky about anything would have been unfathomable. Just another oath he'd broken, another in a long line of them. "Is everything okay? Did you need something or...?"

"It was stupid, I shouldn't have called –" Bucky started, but Steve cut him off. He wasn't in the mood tonight.

"You know the rules, Buck. There's no such thing."

"Fine," Bucky sighed. "It's just...this is really stupid, I'm just warning you right now –"

"Noted, now tell me already."

"You still have a thing for stinky cheeses, don't you." A statement, not a question. 

A startled laugh escaped him and he had to scramble not to drop the phone. "You remember _that_?"

"I know, I said it was stu–"

"That's not what I meant," Steve interrupted. "Tell me what you remember." The more Bucky talked, the more the shadows and ghosts retreated to the corners. Never completely out of sight, but far enough away they weren't suffocating him. He'd take the reprieve and be thankful for it.

"Well, uh...I remember you and Dernier at some farmhouse in France waxing rhapsodic about the qualities of this hunk or rind or whatever the fuck of some _epiosses_ he'd gotten while the rest of us were trying not to gag. You smelled like old socks for three days."

"If I can quote you from the other day, it was some amazing tasting wrongness, so I feel no shame." Steve couldn't believe Bucky remembered that. Of all the things, and of all the nights, for Bucky to want to reminisce about their days with the Howlies...

"You liked cheddars, too, right? Growing up?" Bucky clarified. "You could still taste the sharp ones, even when you were sick or maybe it was because of your sinuses, I'm sorry, I can't quite remember that part."

Jesus, this must be what having a heart attack felt like. He bit back the tears he'd still yet to shed, his heart beating wildly in his chest. "I did. The sharper the better," he confirmed. "But you were a soft cheese man. Brillat-Savarin and Chabichou, especially – you and Peggy, you two were constantly talking about pairing different wines with them, and how the first thing both of you were going to do when we won the war was have a picnic with the best bottle of Chianti you could find and a loaf of crusty French bread and a big block of fontina."

They'd all made so many plans. _If only, if only._

Bucky hmmed. "I hope we invited you, because that seems a little odd, me taking your best girl on a date."

"I wouldn't have minded." In truth, he wouldn't have cared in the slightest. "I loved that you two got along."

"Did you and Peggy...hey, you know, you can tell me if it's too much to talk about –"

"I'm good," he lied, because the last thing he wanted to do was make Bucky feel like there was a topic that was off-limits, no matter how painful. This wasn't about him or his needs or wants. "What about us?"

"I was just wondering, did you two ever get your dance?" Bucky asked, quietly.

Steve's heart clenched again. His voice was a rough scratch when he replied. "Yeah. Yeah, we did."

Too little and far too late, but they'd had it. He'd held her as carefully as if she'd been spun glass, mindful of her brittle bones and paper-thin skin, but she'd clung to him just like his dreams, and her laughter and bright eyes had been exactly how he'd remembered. 

"Good," Bucky said. "I'm glad you had her, I really am. She was... I remember thinking she was good enough for you. And that you were _almost_ good enough for her."

Steve allowed himself a small smile, even though he knew Bucky couldn't see it. "I don't think any man alive would have been good enough for her."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. But she still chose you anyway," Bucky replied. "I remember...you know it's weird, but I really remember loving her for that, in a way. For really seeing you."

"She loved you just as much, you know," Steve said, his voice rough with far too much regret.

He missed them both so fucking much.

***


	10. (Part X – "You're My Friend...")

_(Grand Junction, CO)_

There was a catchy pop song on the radio and James hummed along to it absent-mindedly as he stared out at the passing scenery. Mountains to the south, nice tree-lined buildings to the north, and just ahead, there was a park with a –

"Pull over," he said, dropping his feet on the floorboard with a dull thump.

"Are you alright?" Thor asked, with a concerned frown. The wind was whipping his hair into his eyes, but he didn't seem too bothered about it impeding his vision, so James wasn't, either. They both liked having the top down too much.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just..." He pointed at the small baseball stadium nestled in the middle of a larger sports complex. "It just...it looks like there's a game going on."

Thor's frown cleared, and he obligingly parked in the lot next to the tennis courts. "Did you wish to watch it?"

James fidgeted, then gave a decisive nod. He had free will now. He had choices, and a voice, and he could exercise both. "Yeah, I would. If that's good with you?"

"Certainly," Thor replied, twisting his hair back into a loose bun at the nape of his neck. Unlike when James did it, on Thor the bun looked effortless and noble. But then, everything about Thor seemed effortless and noble. "Steven has been kind enough to invite me to a few games. It's a very enjoyable way to spend an afternoon, even if I admit I don't understand all the rules of the sport."

James laughed as he climbed out of the car, and pulled his battered to hell ball cap lower on his head. "I don't know that I remember all of them, either. I just...I remember I used to like baseball."

"That's a good enough reason."

They paid for their tickets and walked into the stadium. Their seats were on the first base side, with a great view of all the action on the field, as well as at home plate. The sun was shining brightly overhead, the breeze light, but cool on James' skin – perfect weather for baseball, he thought, although he couldn't quite pinpoint why that was. The crowd was sparse, but enthusiastic, and it was easy to get swept along in that enthusiasm. Neither team was all that polished, but that didn't matter, either. James found himself clapping and cheering along, rooting for the home team, of course, because that was just polite.

And the longer the game went on, the more it all started to come back to him. Sixty feet, six inches from the pitcher's mound to home plate, ninety feet between bases. Three strikes and three outs per half-inning. Nine men on the field, and the defense had the ball. James could hear his father patiently explaining the strike zone to him and Steve, the difference between a fastball and a curveball, how pitchers used movement and deception to get the ball to spin and dart over the plate. How hitters would shorten their stroke, or try to power through the pitch, what set a great hitter apart from a merely good one.

The pitcher currently on the mound didn't have great stuff, but his slider was nice and he had a cutter that was just about there. James shot to his feet to clap when the shortstop made a spectacular throw to first – a throw that wouldn't have looked out of place on a major league team – and, with a fierce, deep ache, he wished Steve was here with them. Pressed against his side, laughing and cheering on the nice defensive stops and the equally nice bits of hitting. 

He had his phone pressed against his ear before he could think about it, listening to the tinny ring through the speaker. "Do you remember games at Ebbets?" he asked, the second the line clicked.

There was silence for a beat, then Steve's surprised burst of laughter was in his ear, almost as good as the real thing. "Yeah, Buck," he drawled, "of course I do." And he was trying to act like everything was normal, James gave him credit, but the slight hitch in his voice gave him away.

"Everything square your way?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," Steve replied, which wasn't exactly an answer, but he continued before James could press the matter. "Why're you asking about baseball? If it's to bitch about the designated hitter rule, just know I'm with you."

"The what?" James asked, then frowned. "No, that's not...what designated hitter rule?"

"Trust me, if you haven't read up on it, you're better off not knowing," Steve said, darkly. "It's a goddamn travesty."

James made a mental note to look it up later. "Thor and I are at a game right now – minor league rookie ball – and it just...it made me think of when you and I used to do this." A younger Steve, tiny but vocal as hell, heckling the opposing players, and commiserating with James on every missed swing or missed pitch by their beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. 

"Those were some damn good days," Steve said, in a thick, unsteady voice. 

"We should see about taking in a game when we see each other." James didn't want to promise anything, but he thought he might be ready soon. Every day, he felt himself inching a little closer towards becoming someone who could look Steve in the eyes without flinching.

"That'd be great," Steve told him softly. "Whenever you want, just say the word." 

"Let me know when you're back in the States, and we'll see."

"Yeah, that might..." There was a pause so slight James thought he might be imagining it "...be a while."

"Well, I hear saving the world and protecting the innocent is a full-time job," he replied, trying to inject some levity in his voice.

"Something like that," Steve replied, but he still sounded hollow. Not quite like Steve.

James wanted to press for more, but this wasn't the time or place. "Take care of yourself out there."

"You too," Steve said. "I'll text you tonight."

"No rush," James replied, and they hung up. He stared at the phone with a frown.

Thor nudged his shoulder companionably. "Is Steven well?"

"You know, I have no idea," James replied, with a small, humorless laugh. "What he says and what he's feeling aren't...I get the feeling most of the time that they're not the same thing."

"Yes, I have noticed this as well." The pitcher struck out the next batter, but neither was paying much attention to the game at the moment. "Lying is not in his nature, but he keeps his feelings very close to his heart."

"But I should be better at reading him." He'd been Steve's best friend once. He should _know_ Steve where it counted.

"You two are re-learning each other's personalities and tells," Thor reminded him, in that patient way he had that always managed to make James feel better about himself and his shortcomings. "You must give it time."

"I guess you're right." It _had_ only been a couple of months since they'd started talking again, after all. He should go easier on himself.

He stood, gestured at the concession stand at the top of the stairs. "You want anything? I'm gonna grab a Coke and some peanuts. Can't watch a baseball game without peanuts."

"I will bow to your expertise in this matter." Thor grinned up at him, squinting a little as the sunlight hit his eyes. Maybe they could see about buying him a souvenir cap.

James clapped Thor on the shoulder with his flesh hand, and squeezed, the solidity of muscle and bone under his fingers a comfort. At least his friendship with Thor was uncomplicated, unweighted with history and expectations and far too much regret on both sides. "You got it."

He knew he couldn't fight Steve's battles, either physical or mental. But still, he couldn't help but think there was something he was missing. 

***

_"Up, 'ucky, up!"_

_Bucky widened his eyes as round as he could as he glanced down at the insistent tugging on his pants leg. "Oh, you wanna dance, sweetheart, is that it?"_

_"'ance, 'ucky!" Grace happily agreed, and clapped pudgy hands together._

_He swung her up in his arms, tucked her securely on his hip. "Well, never let it be said that I left my best girl on the sidelines when she's all dolled up in her best dress. Hey, Stevie, would you mind...?"_

_"Stealing all the prettiest girls for yourself again, I see," Steve mock-lamented, but rolled to his feet and turned on the wireless. "Crazy Rhythm" by Roger Wolfe Kahn and His Orchestra had just started. "I guess I'll just stand over here in the corner…"_

_"You could dance with me, Stevie," Becca chimed in, clambering to her feet so fast she almost tripped, although neither Bucky nor Steve mentioned it._

_Steve stopped mid-step and gave Becca a comically exaggerated look. "You'd do that for me?"_

_She batted his arm and giggled. "Course I would. If you wanna..."_

_"It would be my pleasure, my lady." Steve held out his hand with a courtly bow that made her giggle again, then they stumbled into something that Bucky thought might vaguely resemble a foxtrot._

_"C'mon, Gracie, let's show 'em how it's really done," Bucky suggested, and waited for Grace's bouncy nod. He started swaying, singing along to the chorus in a surprisingly clear voice, and Grace's delighted laughter mingled with the song._

_Best way to spend a rainy afternoon ever._

***

_(Outside Reno, NV)_

"You know," James commented, from where he was leaning against the hood of the car, "when you said you wanted to see a few of America's greatest cultural landmarks, this wasn't exactly what I thought you had in mind."

Thor grinned at him, dazzling and wide, as he clapped James on the back. The glittering, neon lights of Reno lit up the night sky, garish against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. "This town is a testament to human ingenuity and workmanship. You should be proud of your ancestors for such a feat."

"Yeah, proud's not exactly the word I'd use." James re-tied his hair into its ponytail, and nudged Thor's shoulder. "What the hell would possess someone to build a place like this? Something so...ostentatious?"

Perhaps he'd worked in the shadows too long, but nothing about the look of this city appealed to him. Everything about it seemed far too...gaudy. Too desperate for attention. Maybe the old him might've loved this place, but now, it seemed like it was trying way too hard.

"What possesses man to build anything?" Thor asked. "The simplest answer is always because we can. Because life – all life – is impermanent, but achievements are immortal."

James thought of his own accomplishments, as horrific and twisted as most of them were. He'd become immortal, a legend in his own lifetime twice over, first for his exploits as second in command of the Howlies, then as the feared Winter Soldier. "I guess there are worse things to be known for," he conceded.

"Such as?"

"We have a saying here on Earth." He quickly glanced Thor's way. "You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain. Well, I've already died a hero. And I've already been reborn as a villain. So I don't know what's next. Who the hell even _gets_ a third chance at life, y'know?"

"Your race is famous throughout the Nine Realms for its resiliency," Thor told him. "You have plenty of time to decide what your next chapter will be."

His next chapter. If only he knew what that was. "You make it sound easy."

"Things are often much easier than we think." Thor's look was patient. Kind. Always so patient and kind, no matter the nature of the discussion or what James said. "What were you before either of those things?"

James was sure his confusion must be showing on his face. "I don't understand the question."

"Before you were a hero and then became this great villain, what were you?" Thor asked.

James shrugged. He was still trying to figure that out. Had been trying since the moment he'd deliberately failed his final mission and left Steve alive and breathing on the bank of the Potomac, in fact. "Just a fella working two jobs trying to make a living for his family, I guess."

"No," Thor corrected, and reached out to tuck a stray bit of hair behind James' ear. His touch was light, but it sent shivers down James' spine all the same. "You were a man. James Buchanan Barnes was a good man. A fine brother and a worthy son and a good and loyal friend. And you are _still_ all of those things where it counts." 

Thor's hand lowered, came to rest right over James' heart. His look was so sincere, so filled with affection, even now, after everything James had done, all of his crimes, all his sins. In that moment, he reminded James so much of Steve that his heart actually hurt. Steve, who had sat across from him, with the full knowledge of every unforgivable deed and every bit of blood on his hands, and had looked at him with that exact expression on his face. Like none of those sins or those crimes mattered. Like James was still deserving of loyalty and friendship and love.

_I don't care what you did or what they turned you into. You're still you in there somewhere and if it takes me the rest of my life to help you find him again, then it's the least I can do... I'm with you – to the end of the line, the end of the galaxy, the end of the fucking universe, it doesn't matter._

James swayed forward, and the next moment, he was touching his mouth against Thor's, the kiss tentative and light as air. Thor's lips were smooth around the rough bristles of his beard, pliant and sweet, and this was...pleasant. _Nice_ , James' brain supplied. Thor's lips pressed against his like this was the nicest thing he could remember in a long while.

"Is this...is this okay?" he asked, when he pulled back. Thor didn't seem upset or repulsed, but maybe he was just being polite.

"Certainly." Thor's smile was soft. The hand tracing circles along his jaw and neck was softer still. "Is this something _you_ desire?"

"I'm...I'm not sure." He couldn't even say why he'd done in it the first place. Just obeyed the impulse, allowed himself the luxury of _not_ thinking for once. "But the kiss was...I liked it."

"I am glad," Thor replied, with another one of his endlessly fond looks. "A kiss is meant to be enjoyed and savored."

James laughed. "You've got a way with words, alright."

He smiled into the next kiss, just as slow and pleasant as the last one. It didn't set the world on fire or his body on fire or anything, but it was good to know he could still take enjoyment in this simple act. In something as basic as a kiss. Thor seemed content to follow his lead, parted his lips to allow James to touch their tongues together, everything honey-sweet and filled with that same warmth and affection as Thor's looks and touches.

Everything about this – the roughness of Thor's beard, the large hand at his nape, having to tilt his head up slightly to get at Thor's lips – was new. Something that wholly belonged to the present. To _now_. James had memories of kissing other people, but all of those memories were of him pressing against women. Of running his hands along soft curves and breathing in feminine sighs.

"You know," he commented, when they parted yet again, "I don't think I've ever kissed a man before. Don't remember ever wanting to, either."

"That's not a bad thing," Thor replied, and settled beside James on the hood of the car. His lips were reddened, and there was an equal flush to his cheeks. James was inordinately pleased that Thor seemed to have enjoyed himself. One's partner having a good time was important. "You are not the man you once were. Perhaps this new you has different desires and wants."

Could it really be that simple? He looked back out over the lights of the city spread out before them, and thought about it. Everything else about him had changed; why not who he wanted to kiss. "I guess that's true," he conceded. 

"There's no harm in experimenting," Thor said. "It's no different than discovering the music you like now or the foods you enjoy eating." 

"I take it this isn't new to you." James gestured between them. "Being with – kissing other men, I mean."

Thor's grin was sunny and dimpled. "No. Asgardians are not as...rigid in their sexuality as many Midgardians are."

"Sounds very evolved. I mean, who anyone kisses shouldn't matter, y'know?" Then he groaned, as a thought occurred to him. "Speaking of, your...uh, girl isn't going to come after me, is she?"

He'd killed ruthlessly and without fear for decades, and had the blood of soldiers and innocents on his hands, but still, the thought of facing any lady's fury for macking on her fella made the blood in his veins run cold. He didn't remember much about his sisters, but he did remember that they could pack a punch when they thought they'd been wronged in any way.

Thor's laugh rumbled through him. "Have no fear, I would protect you if it came to it. But I don't think it will. My relationship with Jane is somewhat...unconventional by Midgardian standards."

James leaned sideways, bumped his arm against Thor's. "So, you have...you two're okay with the other one...kissing on other people?"

When Thor just nodded, James couldn't exactly say he was surprised. Asgardians lived a very long time. Promising one's self to only one other person didn't seem like it would be practical. "That's good," he said, sincerely. "I mean, that you two have that sort of honesty between you."

"Honesty is a fine thing, and a necessary one for any relationship," Thor said, with a small, pleased smile that lit up his entire being from within. It was the purest thing James had seen in recent memory. In fact, it looked a little like what he remembered of the way Steve used to look around Peggy. Like the sun rising on a summer's day. "And Jane has been most understanding of my desire to travel with you rather than join her in Hong Kong, as was my original intent when I finished with my duties at Pepperdine."

"But...I thought you didn't have any plans?" James distinctly remembered that Thor had been, in his words, at loose ends. Had implied that James was doing Thor a favor by inviting him along.

"I was, perhaps, not as forthcoming as I could have been," Thor said, with a small, unapologetic shrug. "You looked in need of companionship, and I could hear in Steve's voice when we all spoke that day that he did not relish the idea of you being on your own. The decision to travel with you instead was an easy one."

In need of companionship. Well, he couldn't exactly say that Thor was wrong. James hadn't even realized how lonely he'd been until Thor's offer.

"But...I'm keeping you from being with her?" he asked in a faint voice. As grateful as he was for the company, there was another voice, this one in his head – it sounded suspiciously like Steve – admonishing him for only thinking of himself. _What would your sisters think of you being so selfish? Your mother?_

"Not in the way you seem to think." Thor rubbed at the lines between James' brows, the touch friendly, light. "You look most distressed, my friend."

"You can't just keep a lady – _your_ lady – waiting."

"Your concern is most gratifying, but I assure you, I am right where I'm most needed," Thor said, then pulled the car keys out of his pocket. "I believe it is your turn to drive, is it not?"

"Thor, I can't let you do this." He hated the thought that he was keeping Thor away from his life and people who cared about him. 

(Not that James _didn't_ care, of course, but...it was different. He wasn't Jane.)

"James, you need not worry on my account." Thor's look was kind, but resolute. "If you truly wish for solitude, then I will, of course, respect your wishes. But otherwise, I am content to continue as your companion."

He _should_ send Thor on his way. He knew that. But, if he was honest, he wasn't quite ready to be on his own again. "You swear you and Jane have talked about this?"

"I promise, she has given her blessing for me to travel with you as long as I'm needed," Thor agreed, his nod solemn, although his eyes were still dancing in amusement. He jangled the keys. "The decision is yours."

 _The decision is yours._ Funny how four small words could pack such a powerful punch.

He gestured, and neatly caught the keys when Thor tossed them to him. "Alright, then," he said, and smiled. "I trust you." 

"Thank you. I am gratified to hear it," Thor said, although James got the distinct impression Thor was thanking him for something else entirely.

***

"Where would you like to visit now?" Thor asked, once they were back on the road and had left the bright lights of Reno behind them.

James drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Shooting up a warehouse full of hostiles and planning covert missions was somehow still easier than verbalizing his needs and wants. But he reminded himself, he _was_ getting better. 

"There's this little town up in Northern California – uh, Glen Ellen. Morita's folks met working at this ranch or vineyard or whatever it was during harvest or something like that, I can't quite remember the details." Steve would know, but it didn't seem important enough to bother him. "Anyway, I _do_ remember that we all promised Jim we'd come visit him when the War was over, let him give us the tour of the place. He always said he was gonna buy the vineyard and spend the rest of his days growing grapes and drinking all the wine."

"That sounds like a fine plan," Thor remarked.

"Yeah, it did. The way he talked about the area, it just…" He shrugged. "It sounded peaceful."

"So, you wish to see this vineyard for yourself?"

"Yeah, I mean, since we're out this way, might as well, right?" He was seventy years too late, but he figured Jim – if he was still keeping an eye on things from beyond the grave – wouldn't begrudge him the tardiness of the visit.

"Did your friend purchase the property as he said he would?" Thor asked.

"Actually, no, he didn't." James had looked up the files on the rest of the Howlies, just as he had with Peggy. Had done his due diligence on everyone he'd served with. "He joined the SSR for a while, did some mop up duty taking down Hydra bases with Peggy and Dugan, and wound up settling in San Francisco. I guess he needed a clean break."

James could relate. Even now, the thought of going back to New York – to Brooklyn – and seeing the physical, tangible reminders of everything he'd lost, everything that had changed, made his palms sweat. He had no idea how Steve had been able to do it. But then, he got the feeling that Steve had always been the stronger of the two of them.

Thor nodded, thoughtful and slow. "There is no shame in moving forward." 

Moving forward. It had a nice ring to it.

***

_Peggy skidded to a halt the second she saw Bucky, her hands already outstretched to grab onto his own. "How is –?"_

_"He's fine, Peg, I promise," he said, and squeezed her fingers, careful not to be too rough. "Docs say he'll be right as rain inside a day, two tops."_

_She nodded once, the motion jerky, and swallowed. "The report – Gabe said it was –"_

_"Shrapnel." Bucky pointed to his rib cage. "Hit him right in the side. He went down like a ton of bricks."_

_He didn't say that his own heart stopped beating when Steve dropped to the ground. Or that it had taken every bit of hard-earned training to keep his rifle steady, to keep giving cover fire to Frenchy and Jim as they'd placed the bombs, then dragged Steve to safety. He also didn't say that he'd almost lost it at the sight of all the blood – far too much for any mortal man to lose and still be breathing._

_There were some things he never needed to tell anyone, not even Steve's best girl._

_"But we finished the mission without –" he started, only to stop at the full force of Peggy's glare._

_"Oh, I don't give a fig about the mission and you know it."_

_"Now I _know_ you're lying," he replied, because he knew her. Sure, she was real sweet on Steve, and had a fondness for the rest of the Howlies, but her sense of duty to the SSR and her country and the cause far outweighed any personal feelings. It was one of the things that Bucky knew Steve liked best about her._

_"C'mere," he said, when she just stood there, looking through him like she didn't quite know where she was. He was careful to telegraph his movements, but she offered no resistance when he pulled her close for a hug._

_She was still and stiff in his arms for a moment, then relaxed against him, clung to his jacket with a tight grip. "Promise me," she said, her voice muffled and low._

_"You know I do," he told her, and pressed a kiss to her hair. He wasn't sure if he needed the embrace and reassurance more than she did, and figured it didn't matter either way. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to him, alright."_

_She shuddered, then nodded, and when she lifted her head, he was proud as hell of the steadiness in her gaze. Steve couldn't have picked a better dame for himself if he had a hundred years and every choice under the sun. "I know you'll do your best," she said._

_"He's family," Bucky replied, with a small shrug. "We've always looked out for each other."_

_Always had and always would._

_Her smile wavered slightly, but her voice was strong enough when she spoke. Stiff upper lip until the very end. "Yes, well, I suppose I do feel better knowing he's got you at his side."_

_"And I feel better knowing he's got you planning the missions," he told her and dropped his hands to curl around hers once more. "You should probably be there when he comes to. I'll just read him the riot act if I'm around when he wakes up."_

_"And you think I won't?" she laughed, and God, she was something else, every stubborn, smart inch of her. No wonder Steve was so far gone. Leave it up to him to find the perfect gal in a warzone about a million miles from home._

_"You're right," he said, and offered his elbow. "We should be together, really give him a reason to sweat."_

_She linked her arm through his, and leaned up slightly to brush a light kiss on his cheek. "I rather like the way you think, James."_

__Stevie, I hope to God you know you struck gold with this one _, Bucky thought, and escorted Peggy out of ops and into medical._

***

Glen Ellen was pretty close to ideal in every way. Nestled up in the mountains in the heart of Sonoma Valley, with winding, rustic, tree-lined streets, charmingly old-fashioned shops and restaurants, everything clean, quaint, and very green. It reminded James of upstate New York, and fuzzy memories of rare times spent alone with his father. Just the two of them, no girls, no Steve, hiking through the forests, with George pointing out an interesting bird or rock or bit of fauna, his patient, soft voice expanding James' world with every story and bit of knowledge.

James still couldn't remember what his father looked like, but recalling his voice was a pretty close consolation prize. 

"You seem pleased about something," Thor observed, as they stepped into the brightly lit and cheerful looking Glen Ellen Village Market.

"Yeah, I just...my father used to take me hiking some mornings out on the Eastern Highlands near Cold Spring. This place just reminds me of it is all."

"Ah, I see." Thor nodded, and gave James' shoulder a friendly squeeze. "I believe this calls for a celebration. The sign on the front door proclaims that this establishment boasts the best coffee cake in the state of California."

"I don't remember ever having coffee cake before, so I guess I'll just take their word for it," James replied, with a grin. "And if they have actual coffee, snag me a cup, would you? I'm gonna try to see if anyone can point us in the direction of the vineyard."

"Certainly," Thor said, and headed to the back of the store, while James walked over to a counter marked 'information and tourist center'. There was an older gentleman sitting on a stool and thumbing through a magazine, who glanced up with a big, welcoming smile when James stopped in front of him.

"Well, hi there," he said, his voice a nasally twang. "What can I do for ya?"

James wondered if everyone was as friendly as this man. "Uh, my friend and I were looking for the old Drummond Ranch. It's in Bennett Valley somewhere, I think?" God, he hoped he was remembering this right.

The man's brows creased, then smoothed out just as quickly. "Oh, you mean the Porter property. Yeah, it's about halfway up Sonoma Mountain. You looking to rent the place out?"

"Rent?" James parroted, lost.

The man nodded as he pulled a map of the area from one of the display cases. "Yeah, it's a pretty popular spot during the summer and fall." He flipped the map open, drew a line in red sharpie from the market to what James assumed was the property. Then he scribbled in a number. "Just call Rosa - she takes care of the property when no one's renting it - when you're on the way, tell her to meet you, and she'll show you around the place. She lives on the other side of the hill."

"Thanks." James pocketed the map, and met Thor at the register. "You planning on feeding the town?" he asked, gesturing at the grocery bag, filled almost to the brim with thick pieces of coffee cake.

Thor shot him an amused look. "Wait until you have tasted it." 

"Best coffee cake in the state," the girl at the register agreed, with a friendly, flirtatious grin that Thor returned.

"I can't imagine another establishment besting this one," he said, then handed James a large to-go coffee cup. "I was also told the French press dark roast is quite delicious."

James took a sip, then let out a pleased hum. "You were given very good intel," he said. The taste brought back memories of Dernier's coffee, ground from his carefully rationed stash of beans. Strong and bitter, but with a slightly sweet aftertaste. 

Thor finished paying and they walked out to the parking lot and the car. "Were you successful in your quest?" Thor asked.

James fished out the map and waved it with his free hand. "Yep, we're all set. Apparently the place is a rental property now, so it's open to the public. I just need to call the landlady to meet us."

"Excellent. I'll drive while you navigate."

"Sounds good."

***

The coffee cake was every bit as good as advertised – James could definitely see why Thor had stocked up on it. The cake itself was springy and moist and the cinnamon topping was both sweet and slightly sharp. He still couldn't remember if he'd ever had it before, but he definitely liked it now.

There was a beat up Jeep sitting just in the drive just outside the gate when he and Thor pulled up, and a petite, smiling woman hopped out of the driver's seat. 

"Hi there." The smile was kind, friendly, reminded James a little bit of the lady at the diner in Abilene. "Which one of you is James?"

"I am." He offered a hand for her to shake. "This is my friend, Thor."

"Thor, hmm? Like the fella that fights for the Avengers?" she asked.

Thor shot James a quick wink. "Yes," he answered.

She eyed him up and down for a second, then nodded. "You're prettier'n he is. But not as big through the –" She gestured at Thor's chest "– I mean, you look _real_ is all I'm sayin'. I think they CGI in muscles or something when they show all the footage on TV 'cause no one's that chiseled and cut in real life. Least no one I've ever met."

James hid his laugh behind a cough, and very pointedly did not look in Thor's direction. "You're Rosa, I guess?"

"Yeah, sorry, I tend to ramble sometimes, gets lonely up at the house with just my dogs to talk to. C'mon, I'll show you around." She punched in a code and the gate swung up. "Your arm, it's beautiful work," she commented, gesturing at the metal. "Stark's or Hammer's?"

"Neither," James replied, after a second. "It was an Austrian doctor, actually."

She looked like she had about a million questions, but to her credit, she didn't voice any of them. "Fair enough. So, the property is fifty acres, no real neighbors to speak of, one-story house with a full loft, three bedrooms, two baths, a pool and a back deck with a fire pit, an herb garden – gotcher sage and rosemary and basil for cooking – and an orchard with fig and peach trees – figs're in season, too – and another plot's got strawberries and raspberries and zucchini and tomatoes and the like, and a view I think you're gonna love. You two looking to rent the place out or...?"

"My friend's parents used to work the vineyards here," Thor said, telling the lie with a totally straight face. 

"Is that right?" Rosa made a thoughtful noise. "Musta been a long time back – no one's grown grapes here in over thirty years. Shame, too, because the soil's great. Place usedta have the best vines for Cabernet and Chardonnays in the area. They even used to make a Margaux blend that held its own with the French, which I know is a sacrilege to say, but it's the truth..." 

Thor nodded along as she talked, but James tuned her out after a few minutes. Morita or Peggy or Dernier probably would have understood what she was saying, but James wasn't sure he'd wouldn't know a Cabernet from a Margaux blend unless someone told him. Instead, he wandered the grounds, and an unfamiliar sensation settled in his chest. His breath loosened as he took a deep, clean breath of fresh mountain air. 

He felt...at peace. Or something close to it.

The house had large windows on all sides that let in plenty of natural light, and the soldier in him couldn't help but notice that the place was easily defensible, with good vantage points on every side and no blindspots. There were verdant fields and rolling hills stretching as far as he could see to the south (presumably where the vineyard had been once), with wooded mountains filling the landscape to the north. Just to the east of the house, he spotted a chicken coop and the orchard, with trees planted beside it in neat rows. Behind the trees, he could see the garden, although he couldn't place any of the plants beyond the tomatoes. The pungent smell of fertilizer hung in the air, a tangible reminder that this was a place meant for growing things.

He could be happy here, he thought, looking at this view every day. He could build a life, maybe, or start over. Or, at least, continue his work on discovering just who the new James Buchanan Barnes was.

"Wow," he breathed, and fished his phone out of his pocket so he could take a few pictures. Steve, with his artist's eye for beauty, would definitely appreciate the scenery.

He attached several of the photos to a text, and wasn't at all surprised when he got an answering text just a few scant minutes later.

 _You're in Italy??! What happened to Nevada?_ Steve had typed.

James laughed and hit dial instead of typing out a reply. "I'm in California," he said, as soon as Steve picked up. "Glen Ellen, to be exact."

"Wasn't that, uh…" James could hear shuffling, then a door closing. "Sorry about that," Steve said, his voice quiet, subdued. "Uh, Jim's parents, right? They use to live there...I think."

Once again, James had to give him points for trying, but Steve sounded tired as hell. 

"Yeah, I'm at Drummond Ranch – or what used to be Drummond Ranch – right now," he replied. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm frosty. Just...a little run down."

"You've been tired a lot lately," James observed. "Maybe you need to take a break from superheroing and take a vacation or something."

Steve chuckled, but it lacked its usual brightness. "Yeah, sure. I'll get right on that."

"I'm serious, Steve, you sound terrible." James gripped the phone tighter in his hand, and started to walk over to the back deck, where Thor and Rosa were talking. "Let me get Thor to fly me to where you are, I can –"

"No!" The word cracked between them as sharp as a whip. "Bucky, please, I don't..." Steve hitched a breath; wet and far too heavy. He sounded like he used to before the War – like every lungful of air was being forced out of him.

"Then talk to me. Please," James added, softly. "If you don't want me there, I get it –" Even though he didn't "– but at least tell me what's going on."

Steve was silent for so long that James started to wonder if the line had been dropped; then he heard Steve exhale, slow and far too careful. "Something happened," he admitted, in a small, broken voice. "There was...an incident. Some...innocent people got hurt. I didn't mean – I swear, Buck, I didn't –"

"No, of course you didn't," James crooned, cursing the distance between them. "Jesus, Steve, of _course_ you didn't want anyone to get hurt. Were there...were there any casualties?"

"No."

Thank God for small favors, James thought. He dreaded the thought of what it would do to Steve if a civilian had actually died on his watch. "Sometimes the wrong people get hurt, you know that. You can't carry that weight around with you."

"It's my fault. My responsibility. My weight."

"Steve –" James started, but Steve just cut him off.

"Buck, I appreciate what you're saying, but this one _is_ on me."

"Okay, it's on you," James agreed, even though he _didn't_ agree at all. He was the one who'd blithely killed civilians and called it acceptable collateral damage, not Steve. "But Thor actually said something to me the other week that I want you to think about, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, I can...anything you want, you know that," Steve promised, and Jesus, he sounded so lost. So alone. James wanted nothing more than to _be_ wherever Steve was, to offer a shoulder or his support or something.

"He told me to be careful that my weight wasn't dragging me down so much I couldn't move forward," James told him and, as he looked around again – at the peaceful hills and welcoming house – he knew what he needed to do. 

Maybe he couldn't take Steve's burden from him, but that didn't mean he couldn't do _something_ to help.

Steve huffed out a small laugh, and maybe James was reading too much into it, but it sounded just a little easier. "Well, Thor's a pretty smart guy. You should listen to him."

"So should you," James replied, because if anyone on the planet deserved peace and a way to move forward and enjoy his life, it was Steve.

"We'll see," Steve said, but James heard the finality in the words all the same. "But, hey, enjoy yourself, okay? Drink all the wine or paint the sunset or whatever it is people do up there for fun."

"You got it. And get some rest, Steve. I want you to at least do that."

"I will."

They ended the call, and James stared at the phone with a small frown before finally walking over to join Rosa and Thor. Time to put his nascent plan in motion.

"So, what do you think?" Rosa asked, with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the entire property. "You want the tour of the inside or –"

"How much to buy it?" 

Rosa's brows knit together in a frown, but Thor just gave him a small, private smile and a smaller nod. "Beg pardon?" Rosa asked.

"How much?" James repeated. "To buy the place? All of it, the land, the house, the vineyard, whatever."

"Uh, well." She rocked back on her heels, nonplussed. "I guess I can...find out for you?"

"As soon as possible, if you don't mind. Tell the owner I'm happy to pay to expedite the process or do whatever I need to do." He had more than enough money siphoned from Hydra for several lifetimes – and he couldn't think of anything more apt to spend it on. "In the meantime, I'm happy to pay to rent it out until the paperwork goes through."

"Uh, okay. I'll, um...give me just a minute to make a call," she said, and wandered to the front of the house, phone in hand.

The second she was out of earshot, James turned to Thor. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything, of course," Thor answered.

"I need you to find out where Steve is for me." Steve could protest all he wanted that he had things under control and he was coping, but James knew better. Steve needed a break. And a place to lie low for a little while, lick his wounds, recenter himself.

James could provide both.

"Has something happened?" Thor asked, with a slight frown.

"Yeah, but I'm not sure on the details just yet," James said. "Can you find out where he is?" He could probably do it himself, given enough time, but the encryption on Steve's phone was still top notch.

"Certainly. Lady Natasha's been with him the last couple of weeks. I'll reach out to her."

"Thanks." That made things easier. "You don't...I don't know, think I'm crazy for doing this? I mean, wanting to buy the place?"

Thor just smiled and slung an arm around James' shoulders. "I think, if it is madness, it is madness of the best kind. This place speaks to you?"

"Yeah. Yeah it does." He stared at the hills and the trees and felt that same sense of peace creep back over him. He _could_ be happy here. And he could provide a safe haven for Steve while he was at it. "I know I should be, I don't know, trying to get back to New York, but...I don't think I can go back there. I don't think I'll ever be ready to go back there. Does that...does that make sense?"

"More than you realize," Thor replied, with a small smile. "Your connection to New York is in the past. This place is your future."

James let out the breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding. "One day, you really do have to let me know how it is you know exactly what to say, no matter what the situation."

"One day," Thor agreed, and pressed a light kiss to James' forehead. It felt like a benediction.

James smiled. "I guess this means you can go join Jane in Hong Kong now."

Thor regarded him out of those far too-knowing blue eyes for a long time. "You do seem more at peace now."

"Thanks to you," James told him, sincerely. No matter what, these last few weeks with Thor had proven to him that he was capable of being so much more than what Hydra had programmed him to be. He may not be whole just yet, but he was learning how to be a person again, and that had to mean something.

" _Heilfir farit nu ok horskir hars ykr hugr teygir_ ," Thor said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind James' ear.

James didn't recognize the language precisely, but it sounded enough like Norwegian that he caught the gist of it. " _Spasibo tebe za vse, moy droog_ ," he replied, and pulled Thor to him for a long, drawn-out hug that felt like thank you and goodbye.

Like the start of a new chapter for both of them.

***


	11. (PART XI – "The Hero Who Sacrificed Everything")

_Bucky was already out of breath by the time he rounded the corner into the alley behind Stachowski's deli, but it didn't stop him from kicking the no–account ass who was whaling on Steve as hard as he could. Steve just managed to scramble backwards as the fella went sprawling face first to the ground, but Bucky couldn't risk looking Steve's way just yet. He had to take care of the trash first._

_The other guy climbed wobbly to his feet, blood trickling from his forehead, and jeez Louise, he was a goddamn giant. Had to outweigh Bucky himself by at least a good thirty pounds, and had half a head on him to boot. Leave it to Stevie, alright, to go after the biggest fucking bully on the block._

_But Bucky just put his fists up in a boxer's stance, and offered his coolest, most intimidating look. "You wanna go a few rounds, pal, put 'em up and let's dance."_

_The other guy spat out a wad of blood mixed with saliva, and took an obliging step forward before beady eyes narrowed, and he jerked to a halt. "Hey, waitaminute. You're that Barnes kid, ain'tcha?"_

_Bucky raised his fists an inch higher and stuck his chin out. "So what if I am?"_

_"Saw you knock out Pete Delgado coupla weeks back – second round K.O."_

_"Firs', ac'lly," Steve piped up from behind the guy. He sounded like he was chewing on marbles, but at least he was conscious. Which was a win every day of the week in Bucky's book._

_"Thanks, Steve," Bucky said, but didn't look away from the other fella. "Yeah, that was me. So, unless you wanna get real intimately acquainted with my right hook, I suggest you scram."_

_Those mean, beady eyes gave Bucky another long glare, then the other fella waved a beefy hand in a dismissive gesture. "You needta put a muzzle on your friend if you don't wanna keep cleaning up his messes," he warned, then walked out of the alleyway without even bothering to look back._

_The second he was out of sight, Bucky dropped to his haunches in front of Steve. "Jesus, you're a mess." He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket. "He break anything besides your face?"_

_Steve grimaced, and shrugged, dabbing at the blood on his lip. It was split all to hell, and his right eye was swelled shut, and he had a pretty decent gash on his left cheek, but he looked alright other than that. "I ha' ith un'er con'ro'," he mumbled._

_"Sure you did, buddy, sure you did," Bucky replied, with a sigh. "Becca said he was mouthin' off at one of her friends when you jumped in?"_

_Steve nodded, and pressed the handkerchief to his cheek, the white of it quickly staining red. "He ha' no righ' to – he calle' her a –"_

_"I know what he said," Bucky told him, and sat beside Steve on the ground. "I shoulda kicked more than just his ass."_

_Steve just shrugged and leaned against him, bony shoulder pressed against his own, warm and familiar. "Shoulda seen th' loo' on 'is face…"_

_Bucky grinned, and ruffled Steve's hair. "I'm sure it was a sight," he agreed, and offered up a silent prayer that Steve had come out of the encounter with all his limbs and teeth intact._

***

James was being followed.

The woman tailing him was good – damn good, even. Someone James would have been proud to have on his team back when he'd been the Winter Soldier. She'd changed jackets and sunglasses and hats and the way she moved at least twice, and had been careful to stay back, observe from a distance, but James had still spotted her an hour and five stores ago.

If she was with Hydra, she'd have been briefed on who he was and what he was capable of doing, and would know to wait until there weren't as many witnesses around to try to take him. If she _wasn't_ with Hydra, then she was most likely with the NSA or CIA or maybe even Interpol, and he had even less interest in talking to them. (At least with Hydra, he knew where he stood.) So, he ran the rest of his errands; placed his order for new furniture at Seward's, then stopped by the realtor to sign the last of the paperwork on the property, and kept a sharp eye out for any surprises, kept his knife and gun close at hand.

But, because he was curious to see how she'd react, when he'd done everything he needed on his to–do list, he strolled to Talisman Wines Tasting Room. Ordered a glass of their Russian River Pinot Noir (if he was gonna live in wine country, he might as well get started acquainting himself with the vintages the area was known for), and sat at one of the sidewalk tables to wait. 

Fifteen minutes later, she dropped into the chair across from him. "Barnes," she greeted, in a whiskey–rough voice that he instantly recognized. _Not_ Hydra or a three–letter agency, then.

"Hoodie and glasses off, keep your hands where I can see them," he replied. He kept his own hands on the stem of his wine glass. It could prove a valuable weapon if needed, although he hoped he wouldn't need to utilize it.

But he relaxed slightly when she lowered the hoodie, revealing her signature red hair, and tossed the sunglasses on the table. "Sorry for all the cloak and dagger," Natasha Romanov said, with a carelessly calculated shrug. "Old habits."

"You should have saved yourself the trouble," he told her. "I made you as soon as I came out of the Market. You were in a purple jacket and a black beanie," he added, just in case she needed the proof.

She made a small noise that he couldn't quite interpret. "Your files said you were good."

He shrugged and took a sip of his very excellent wine. There wasn't a point in either denying or acknowledging it – nothing would change the facts. He'd been trained for decades to be the perfect weapon. "I didn't expect you to come in person," he said. "You could have just texted me Steve's coordinates. Or had Thor contact me."

"I could've, but I wanted to talk to you first."

"Alright." 

It made sense that she would want to vet James personally before letting him know Steve's whereabouts. After all, the last time she'd seen him, he'd been actively trying to kill Steve, and her, in the bargain. Even if Thor had, presumably, given Natasha a glowing report on James' mental health, it was still smart to make sure that he was no longer being controlled by another's hands. It was something he would have done.

"I need you to understand what it is you're walking into," she said, after a long silence.

"Walking into? Is Steve's mission sensitive? Does he need backup or –?"

"He's killing people in cold blood."

"He's what?" There was no way she'd said what he'd thought she just said.

"He's been brutally efficient, I'll give him that," she continued; he still couldn't quite get a read on her expression. "But this – what he's been doing – this is beyond revenge or even vengeance. This is rage like I've never seen it."

"Revenge? Vengeance?" Nothing she was saying was making any sense. He waited for a minute, just in case this was some elaborate test, but she just sat there. "Does this… is this about the civilians getting hurt on his last op?"

She leaned back, studied him so long he felt like a bug on the end of a stick. "He told you about that?"

"He told me a mission went wrong and civilians were hurt. He sounded...not well," James admitted, and the first tendrils of true concern started to wind through him, a ribbon tightening around him like a noose. She wasn't joking. This wasn't a test. "He hasn't sounded good in...a long time."

Guilt gnawed at him like acid. He should have had Thor take him to Steve weeks ago. He should have never left Steve's side in the first place. He should have asked more questions, been more diligent, done the same basic fucking recon that he'd done on every single mission he'd ever had.

She didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't so much as blink. "I need you to understand that Steve is in a very dark place right now and that I am trusting you to help him realize what he's doing to himself." 

"What he's doing to himself?"

She moved slowly, laid one of her hands over his metal one. The look she gave him was serious, and far too solemn. He got the impression not many people ever got to see this side of the famed Black Widow. "He needs you. I think you're the only person alive who has a real shot of getting him to listen to reason before it's too late."

 _Listen to reason. Before it's too late._ Steve needed his help. She should have just led with that.

"Where is he?" 

"He's been in Córdoba the last week, gathering intel on Sofia Marcel's whereabouts so he can go after her."

Sofia Marcel. 

James remembered her. Remembered who she was to Pierce, to Hydra. What she was capable of, what she'd done. Remembered massacres in Caracas and the trail of broken bodies in Niamey and how she'd disappeared when the helicarriers had gone down and Pierce had been killed. She'd always been an expert at covering her tracks. 

_Jesus, Steve, what the_ fuck _are you up to?_

He mentally did the calculations. He could be there in less than a day. "How long do we have before Steve's on the move again?"

"I bought a few days, told him to stay put while I followed up on a lead," she said. "I have a quinjet fueled up and waiting."

He stood, threw a few bills on the table for a tip. "How soon can this jet of yours get us there?"

"That's it, no other questions?" she asked, looking up at him with a perfectly raised eyebrow. "You don't want me to tell you what it is he's been doing?"

"You said he needed my help. I don't need to know anything else." Whatever it was that was going on, James had _heard_ the pain and desperation in Steve's voice the last time they'd talked. He'd sounded like a man at the end of his rope.

Steve had been there for James when James didn't have anything else or anyone else. The least he owed Steve was to be there to return the favor.

"You given any thought about how you're going to handle the situation?" she asked, and stood herself.

"Not really," he replied, with a shrug. "I'll figure it out when I see him."

"That doesn't sound like the Winter Soldier at all."

James shot her a quick grin, pleased she'd noticed. "No. It doesn't."

"Good." Her lips quirked into a smile, like she was equally pleased with his answer. "Then let's go."

***

_Bucky couldn't get over it. Last time he'd seen Steve, he'd come up to Bucky's shoulder and looked like a stiff breeze could knock him down. (He knew better, of course; Steve was one of the toughest SOBs Bucky'd ever known.) But now? Jeez, it was like looking in a funhouse mirror, everything all distorted and backwards._

_"This is real, right?" he asked, once they'd all made camp for a couple of hours to tend to the wounded and assess their weapons and ammo sit-rep. It wasn't great, aside from the tank Dum Dum and Gabe and Falsworth had liberated and a couple of those newfangled ray-gun weapons Dernier and Morita had managed to snag. "I'm not still back on the table?"_

_"This is real, Buck, swear on a stack of Bibles and Ma's name," Steve said, and at least his voice was still familiar. As was the hard, stubborn set to his jaw. His friend was still there, buried under all that muscle and_ height _._

_"Christ Almighty, they did a number on you," he said, flapping his hand in Steve's direction. "Look at you."_

_Steve cupped his hand to his nape and shrugged those crazy wide shoulders. "Trust me, I'm still getting used to it. Tripped over my own damn feet so much in the first month I was sure the serum was defective or something."_

_"I bet. You're twice the size you used to be – 'course that'd take some getting used to. The girls ain't even gonna recognize you."_

_Steve's cheeks reddened, and that was still the same, too. "Um...well, they kinda already know?" he said, voice rising at the end._

_Bucky frowned. "Whaddaya mean, they already know?" How the hell could his sisters know when he hadn't known?_

_"I mean, I, uh, I told them," Steve stammered out, looking all of ten years old again, in spite of the fact that he had a chest like an oak barrel and thighs like tree trunks. "Well, showed them," he amended. "During my USO stop in New York."_

_USO? Then Bucky remembered why Steve was in Italy in the first place, and scowled all over again. "You telling me my_ sisters _knew about this, but not me? And _they_ didn't tell me?"_

_"We didn't want to worry you," Steve said, and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to knock him forward a step. "Uh, sorry. Still getting used to it, remember."_

_"Jesus, I'm fucking killing the lot of you as soon as we make it home."_

***

Steve base of operations was a small apartment in a grungy building on the outskirts of town. James eyed the dingy greying paint on the walls and the warped wood floors as he followed Natasha up five flights of rickety stairs. What the hell was Steve doing in a place like this? Surely Tony or whoever was fronting these missions could afford to put Steve up someplace decent.

He stopped her when they got to the landing of the apartment. "Does he even know I'm coming?"

The look she gave him was wryly amused. "And give him a chance to bolt?" she asked, and put the key in the lock. 

He registered the sound of a gun safety clicking off before Natasha finished turning the handle. Instinct, over seventy years of it ingrained in him so deep it was grafted in his very bones, took over between heartbeats. Without a word, he shoved Natasha behind him, a shield between her and the threat, and pushed the door the rest of the way open, leading with the metal arm.

A scruffy, dark–haired man in all black was standing in the middle of the room – six–two, two–forty, long reach, in physically peak shape – raising a .45 to fire. Threat level imminent. Two moves and five seconds to disarm – non–lethal measures.

The other man hesitated a split second, the barrel wavering, and the soldier took immediate advantage. With his left hand, he grabbed the gun, ejecting both the magazine and the bullet in the chamber, the movements smooth, practiced, second nature. There were no other weapons on the man's body or within reach. Immediate danger neutralized.

He stepped back to a credible distance, out of the way of any swinging fists or kicks that might head his way. His gaze narrowed at the sharp, strangled gasp from the other man. And the adrenaline rush sustaining him popped like a balloon. 

_Steve_ was staring back at him, blue eyes as wide as saucers, face pale behind the dark brown of his beard. 

" _Bucky_?"

"What the fuck, Steve?" James gestured at the gun still in his hand. He felt shaky. Sick to the pit of his stomach. He'd _almost_ – he could have –

"Jesus, I...you – What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Steve asked, then looked past him. "Why the hell is he _here_ , Nat?"

"To talk some sense into you," Natasha said, and walked up to stand beside James. "Or beat it into you, I'm not picky." Then she deliberately turned her back to Steve, and gave James a slight smile. " _Ya tyebya ostavlyu. Pozvoni, kogda s nim zakonchish,_ " she said, and walked right back out the door, shutting it behind her.

Leaving James and Steve alone for the first time since that night in Abilene.

They stared at each other in silence for a long time, neither one moving. Steve looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since Texas – there were sallow bags under his eyes, his mouth was in a thin, flat line, shoulders pulled back into parade rest. Every inch of him lean and coiled, a panther ready to strike. Sharp angles and ice–cold anger banked in his eyes, no hint of gentleness or empathy or anything that made Steve _Steve_. 

He looked uncomfortably, terrifyingly familiar.

The sick feeling bubbled over, bile in the back of James' throat. He'd been in too many rooms like this – threadbare and grimy, smelling of stale smoke and old sweat and decay – before Steve had found him. Had lived rough, no sleep, constantly on the move, always on alert, nerves stretched so tight he was sure they'd snap. He'd seen that exact face in the mirror far too many times to count. He never, ever wanted to see Steve wearing it.

Then Steve rubbed a hand over his scruff and flashed James a wary look. "You shouldn't be here. I thought you were with Thor."

"He's in Hong Kong with Jane now." James glanced down, abruptly realized he was still holding the gun and the magazine in his hands. He carefully set them on a tiny bedside table like they were grenade fragments, and exhaled again – unsteady, but light – the second he was rid of the weight.

Then he turned, faced Steve again. "You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Doesn't concern you." A muscle ticked in Steve's neck. "You can't be here. I can't protect you."

"Protect me? Protect me from what?" He didn't mention that he'd had no trouble protecting himself or in disarming Steve.

"You need to leave," Steve insisted, clipped and cold. But his gaze drank James in like he was dying of thirst, pored over every inch of him like he was memorizing every minute detail. "I _need_ you to be safe, okay. I need –" His voice cracked; a fracturing of the armor "– I can't _do_ this if you're not somewhere safe."

"Can't do what?" James took a chance, inched forward a step, then two. Deeper into Steve's space. " _Talk_ to me."

"Better if you don't know."

Had Steve always been this stubborn? Always been this hard to crack? "Tell me why you're going after Sofia Marcel."

Steve's face hardened at the name. "Nat told you?"

"She told me Marcel is why you're here in Córdoba. She told me you were –" Even now, he could barely bring himself to think of it, let alone say it out loud "– killing people in cold blood."

"Not cold blood," Steve corrected, with a quick shake of his head. "This isn't murder, Buck. It's justice."

"Justice for what? Who's sending you, of all fucking people, on these missions?" Jesus, he'd _never_ even asked about them. Never asked what Steve was doing or why or on whose orders. A tight ball of shame started to unravel in his heart. He'd been so focused on himself, on using Steve as a lifeline for his own ends. The worst sort of selfish bastard, not at all the man he'd been trying so hard to become.

"I'm sorry," he abruptly whispered, and sank to the edge of the bed, his legs weak. Glanced up beseechingly at Steve – at the man who'd come after him, who'd given him his third chance at life, his _family_ , and the one good thing he had in this world – and felt sick all over again. "I've been a terrible friend."

"What? No, you're –" Steve dropped to the chair next to the bed, leaned in close. For the first time, James saw the light in his eyes, could finally see the blue under the ice. "You've been – Jesus, your calls and texts and the chess match – they've been what's kept me going. Kept me focused."

"Focused on what? Killing people? Going after people like Sofia Marcel all on your own, without backup or –" James glanced around the room. Frowned. "Steve, where's your shield?"

Steve always went into combat with the shield. He could handle any weapon anyone tossed him, but the shield was as much a part of him as James' metal arm. James _remembered_ that much. 

Steve shrugged. "With Tony. I couldn't – these are covert missions." He gestured to his shaggy dark hair and dark beard and dark, utilitarian clothing. Stealth gear. Fit for a spy, not a soldier. "I had to leave Captain America behind."

A chill went down James' spine. This wasn't right. This wasn't _Steve_. Was it? Or were his fractured memories really that off–base? Had he been lying to himself this entire time, so desperate to reclaim his past that he'd misinterpreted every memory? 

"Why?" he asked. "Whose orders are you –?"

"No one's." The reply was clinical, detached. James would have preferred a shout. "This is _my_ mission. My responsibility. No one else's."

"And what _is_ your mission here?" James asked, sweeping a hand over the squalor of the room. They'd stayed in bombed out buildings during the War that were cleaner than this dump. 

Steve's face shuttered again. "What needs to be done. Marcel and everyone else...they all have to pay for what they did to you. What they did to Peggy's legacy, to SHIELD, all of it."

Peggy's legacy? Himself? James wondered who it was Steve was trying to fool, because it sure as hell wasn't him. "And going dark and killing people – hurting civilians –"

Steve reeled back in his chair like James had hit him. "That was…I _never_ meant for anyone to get hurt –"

"– because what I'm seeing is you betraying every single principle you've ever had for the sake of revenge. And that's not who you are."

Steve flinched again, but jutted his chin out in an obstinate, familiar line. "What the fuck would you know about my principles, you can barely remember _me_!" 

The shout ricocheted between them, the aim true, a perfect shot. The sniper that lived inside James' head couldn't help but be impressed, even as he recoiled, the words hitting their mark.

Then Steve blanched, face going bone–white. He looked like _he'd_ been suckerpunched. "I – Christ, I'm sorry, Buck, I didn't mean –"

"You're right. I _don't_ remember you. Not really." There was no use trying to deny it. And James preferred Steve's brutal honesty over the cold mask he'd been showing. "But I've gotten to know you the last couple of months, and I've learned enough to know that this _isn't_ you."

He couldn't have been that wrong, not about this. Steve was _better_ than murder or revenge or chasing ghosts by himself all over the world. He'd been chosen for Project Rebirth to _be_ better, to be the best. This – what Steve was doing – it was what the Winter Soldier would have done, had James given that part of himself free rein these last few months. That Steve had taken the gifts he'd been given, those hard–won and well–honed talents and twisted them like this, was anathema.

"But it _is_ me," Steve argued. "It's just like Doc said."

"Doc?" 

"Good becomes great, bad becomes worse."

James didn't mind admitting he was well and truly lost. "What?"

Steve laughed, and the sound was harsh, fingernails on a chalkboard. "It's something Dr. Erskine said to me the night before I got the serum. It – the serum – it amplifies everything. If you're a good man, you become capable of greatness. But if you're bad..." His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile, terrible and _wrong_. "Well, I think you can figure that part out yourself."

"You're _not_ a bad man." James reached out a hand, drawn to Steve as if by some invisible magnet. The pull was just as strong now, if not stronger, than it had been in Texas. "Even if I'd never remembered a thing about you, I would know that."

"Maybe I used to be good. But that person died a long time ago. All I have left is this," Steve said, his eyes blank and winter–cold once more.

 _Jesus, Stevie. Jesus. What have they done to you? What have_ we _done to you? What did we force you to become?_

James had no idea what to say, or how to act. He needed Thor – someone with a knack for getting at the truth or saying the right words. This was… He didn't have any training that would help him or any memories he could call up. All he had were his instincts, and that voice inside his head begging him to say something. To fight, for as long as he had to, using whatever weapons he could.

_We gotta perfect system, you'n'me. We ain't never gonna lose long as you remember - you can start all the fights you want, but you gotta let me finish 'em._

This was one fight James couldn't afford to lose.

"This isn't all you have," he said, wetting dry lips. Prayed to a god he didn't even believe in that he could find the words to make Steve see reason. "You've been telling me for months that I can do or be anything I want now. That – that also goes for you."

"I can't..." Steve looked so broken, pale and lost and tired. So fucking tired. "I'm going to hell anyway, you know. At least, this way, it'll be for a good reason." 

" _Fuck_ that," James swore. "I don't remember jack shit about the sermons we used to listen to when we were kids, but I know you've done a lot more good than bad in this world. And if God doesn't see it that way, then I guess I'll be having words with him with the time comes." 

" _Christ_ , you sound just like you used to back in Brooklyn." James got the impression Steve meant it as an insult. 

He'd take it, as long as it kept Steve focused on him, and not on anything else. "Well, maybe old me's got a few good points," he said.

"I'm not coming back in. Not until they're all dead."

"Can't or won't?"

"Right now, it's the same thing." Steve stood, raked a shaking hand through his hair. Looked down at James with that same desperate look from earlier. Like he was memorizing every inch of James' face.

"It was...you look good, Buck, I mean that. You look...really fucking good. I'm glad you're doing better, you know I am. It means… _God_ , it means so much. But I've got a job to do. And I can't do it if you're –" He shook his head, then took a step towards the door.

James shot to his feet, and blocked the exit with his body. "I'm not letting you leave." 

Steve straightened to his full height, shoulders ramrod straight. "You can't ask me to stop." 

"Yes I can. I am." 

"Buck –"

The words tumbled out, fueled by desperation and fear. He couldn't let Steve walk away. He _couldn't_. "We go out that door together. And either you get in the quinjet to come with me to Glen Ellen or you've got yourself a partner in going after Hydra."

Steve went pale once more, horror writ large all across his face. "I can't – I can't let you do that. You're – you don't want to hurt people anymore."

"This isn't negotiable." He had no wish or desire to pick up arms again or fight, but for Steve...if it meant keeping Steve in his sights, making sure he went after Hydra the right way, he'd do it without hesitation.

Something ugly flashed in Steve's eyes just for a moment – angry and challenging, like he was getting ready to accept James' ultimatum. "Fuck you. You got _no_ idea the lengths I've gone through to make sure you're safe. I'm not just gonna –"

"I know _exactly_ what you've done. Maybe not the dirty details, but I don't need those. I know what you're capable of. I remember what we did in the War." Those memories would haunt him forever, just like the screams of all his victims when he'd been the Winter Soldier.

"It's not the same th–"

"I. Don't. Care." James took a step closer, then another. He pointed at the gun pieces still on the table. "Because one way or another, I'm not leaving without you. It's your choice as to how. Do I put that gun back together or not?"

Steve shook his head. "I can't let you –"

"My choice. _Mine_ ," James emphasized, pointing at his own chest. "You've made damn sure the last few months that I knew I had them now."

"Bucky, please…" Steve closed his eyes like he couldn't bear to keep them open. His voice was a rough, desperate scratch. "Please don't ask me to do this –"

"I bought the old Drummond Ranch," James continued, talking over Steve, ruthless now, pressing every advantage he had, everything he could think of. Anything to keep Steve in the room. "I bought it for _us_. So we'd have a safe place that was ours." He was close enough now to grab Steve's shoulder. "Two weeks. Just give me two weeks. Let the others worry about Hydra for a while."

Steve stared at him out of those tired eyes that looked far too brittle and much too old. "You're serious? Why? Why would you –?"

"Because it's time for both of us to stop for a little while." If the unvarnished truth was his only card left to play, he was doubling down. "I won't make you talk about anything you don't want to – not the missions you've been on, not the people you've killed, none of it. All I want is for you to rest, maybe finish our chess match, or start a new one. No strings."

Steve wasn't ready to talk yet, that much was clear. James could be patient, though, until an opportune time presented itself. He had a lot of practice in waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

"I...I don't..."

James _knew_ that tone; somewhere deep inside, he knew it. But he wouldn't allow himself to declare victory, not just yet. "If you want somewhere to recharge or start over, or just a safe spot to sleep without needing to keep an eye open, I'm offering the means and a place to do it."

Steve bit at his lip, and swallowed. "What do you do all day?"

He was so close, he could practically taste it. "Well, I just moved in, but I plan on doing whatever the hell I want."

"It sounds great," Steve replied, with a solemn nod. "And you deserve it. You deserve that more than anyone else I know. But I don't...I don't know if I can do that. Just stop."

"You can," James insisted, and squeezed his fingers, felt flesh and muscle and bone. Offered warmth and comfort and friendship and whatever else it was Steve needed. "I'll teach you."

"Buck..." Steve protested, but it was feeble, a far cry from the icy tone he'd had earlier. 

"You weren't always like this, and we both know it. I'll help you remember who you're supposed to be. Every day if I have to," James added, when Steve just gave him a skeptical look. 

"I can't just turn tail and run. I _can't_."

 _The second you run away, they'll chase after you forever. They'll never let you stop._ The words rang in James' ears, an echo from a time he only remembered in bits and pieces. 

"This isn't running. It's starting over." He remembered what Thor had told him, right before they'd said goodbye – he _had_ come a long way since he and Steve had last seen each other. It was time to prove that to Steve. To prove that he could be there, that he could be Steve's anchor like Steve had done for him. 

"Remember what you told me back in Abilene?" he asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. "That I wasn't alone and you'd be my friend as long as you had breath in your body? Well, that goes both ways. I'm fucking _with_ you, alright?"

Steve let out a watery chuckle and reached his own hand up to grab James'. Held so tight that James started to lose feeling in his fingers, but all he did was change his grip so their hands fit together better. He could _do_ this.

"Please," he urged, calling on the one trump card he had left. "I'm asking – I'm _begging_ – you to come with me. Let me help you like you helped me."

 _Please. Please don't let these last few months have been a lie._

"I...I need to make sure." Steve stumbled over the words. "That Nat and Tony...they need to –"

"You won't have to tell them anything," James replied, because it was past time Steve realized he _wasn't_ in this alone. "They want Hydra off the map as much as you do. You and I weren't the only ones they fucked over, not by a long shot."

"Two weeks." Steve blinked, comically slow. Like he was surprised at himself for caving. "I can't promise more."

"Sounds fair." James would...well, he'd just have to make sure that Steve made the right decision at the end of those two weeks. Because there wasn't any way in hell he was going to let the best and only friend he had – one of the best and most moral men in history – continue to compromise every one of his ideals and principles. Especially out of some misguided sense of revenge for what had happened to James.

He had enough sins on his conscience without adding Steve Rogers' soul to that list.

"Okay, then. Okay." Steve nodded, like he was trying to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. "When...when do we leave?"

***

_"Didn't think anyone else would be up here."_

_"Jesus." Bucky hurried to tamp out his cigarette as he turned to face Steve. Who was looking a little wobbly, but at least the purpling bruises under his eyes weren't so bad. "How're the ribs? Should you even be out of bed?"_

_"I'm fine," Steve said, around a slight wince. "It only hurts when I breathe."_

_"That's not funny." If Bucky hadn't shown up when he had..._

_"Yeah, well, it hurts when I laugh, too." Thin shoulders shrugged as Steve wrapped his blanket closer around himself. "I was going stir crazy, thought I'd get some fresh air. Aren't you and Caroline supposed to be out dancing?"_

_Bucky thought about trying to hustle Steve downstairs and back into his bed, but he wasn't up for the inevitable argument. "Turns out she double–booked herself tonight."_

_"Tough break," Steve commiserated. "But you know anyone down at the club would've been happy to let you take 'em for a spin."_

_"Maybe tomorrow night." Truthfully, he was just as happy that Caroline had sent her regrets. Woulda been tough for him to go out and paint the town knowing Steve was fending for himself. (Not that Steve would ever admit to needing the help. God forbid he ever lose that chip on his shoulder, even for five lousy minutes.)_

_"So why're you up here?" Steve asked, coming to stand beside him. The view from the roof of their building wasn't all that much to look at; they had to crane their heads just right to see part of the Bridge and the river._

_Bucky carefully nudged against him, mindful of Steve's injuries. "Just thinking about the future."_

_"That again?" Steve asked, shaking his head._

_"Hey, it'll be here quicker'n we know it."_

_"Still wanna go to the moon?"_

_Bucky laughed, delighted Steve had remembered. "Sure, if they'll have me on the spaceship. But we gotta get the girls all married and settled first. And I guess our wives would need to be okay with it."_

_"Your wife, maybe." Steve's smile dimmed, then disappeared altogether. "I'm lucky if I even get a second date. Not too sure marriage is in the cards for me."_

_Bucky hated it when Steve talked like that. Like he wasn't worth at least five other fellas in their neighborhood all put together. "Some dame's gonna see you for the swell guy you are, you just wait. I just hope I'm around when it happens."_

_"Where else would you be?" Steve asked, with a confused look._

_Where else, indeed. "Yeah," Bucky said, with a laugh. "You're right."_

***


	12. (Part XII – "What Makes You Happy?")

Glen Ellen was a far fucking cry from Brooklyn. 

Steve looked out the car window as Natasha drove them into town, and tried to picture staying here for two weeks. Tried to picture himself walking along the tree–lined streets, shopping at any of the quaint–looking brick stores that lined the sparkling clean sidewalks, living surrounded by endless blue sky and trees. Couldn't. 

Everything was too bright, too clean, far removed from the violence and bloodshed he'd been mired in the last couple of months.

"What do you think?" Bucky asked, from the back seat. It was the first thing he'd said to Steve since they'd left Córdoba. He'd spent the flight to California in the pilot's seat, manning the controls with an ease that Steve both admired and hated in equal measure. 

He knew exactly where Bucky'd gained that skillset, and why. Steve's methods over the last few months may not have been approved by the Geneva Convention, but they'd been remarkably effective as a means of getting information. He'd learned everything about the techniques Hydra'd used to program and train their Winter Soldier, their most valuable Asset, in the art of combat and tactics and covert ops. How they'd systematically stripped Bucky of his free will, the hypo-therapy and electroshock-therapy and just plain torture they'd employed, the drugs they'd used and the dosages. 

Steve shrugged, and forced himself to relax his shoulders. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. How he was supposed to act. "It's pretty," he finally offered. "Lots of trees. Nothing like Brooklyn."

Bucky made a thoughtful noise. It sounded like a rebuke. "Yeah, I suppose. You'd know better than me, though."

"I didn't mean –" Steve blew out a breath. Conversation between them had been so much easier when Bucky'd just been a voice in his ear. "It's not bad. Just different."

"I think you both could use a little different in your lives," Natasha said, and came to a stop outside a little sidewalk café. "Is this okay?" she asked, looking at Bucky in the rearview mirror.

"It's fine," Bucky told her, then leaned up between the seats to brush a kiss across her cheek. He said something in rapid–fire Russian too low for Steve to make out. 

But Natasha just nodded and twisted so she could return the kiss, this time to Bucky's lips. " _Ya budu derzhat' tyebya v kursse - spassibo za to, chto ty delayesh._ " 

Bucky ducked his head and smiled, a faint flush on his cheeks. " _Spassibo, chto doveryaesh mnye zabotit'sya o nyom_ ," he said, and climbed out of the car. "I'll go get the truck, give you two a minute."

"Thanks, Buck," Steve replied, and waited until Bucky'd turned the corner before looking at Natasha. "You'll let me know when you've got Marcel, right?"

"Relax, Rogers, we got this." She reached over to squeeze his hand. "I've already got Clint and Sam en route."

Steve frowned. Clint made a certain amount of sense, sure, but Sam? He was a soldier, a healer, someone who _rescued_ people, not a spy or assassin. He had a life free of gunfire and bloodshed for a reason. "Sam shouldn't be –"

Natasha gave him a hard look that stilled the rest of his words. "Sam is an adult capable of deciding for himself what he should or shouldn't do," she told him. "Now get out of the car and go relax. Enjoy your time off."

 _Enjoy your time off._ Like he'd somehow _earned_ a break. Earned the right to walk away. Like running off halfway around the world before the mission was complete was somehow a _good_ thing that should be rewarded.

Panic seized his throat, turned his blood to ice. His hand froze on the door handle.

"I have no idea what I'm supposed to _do_ ," he said, wondering if he sounded as terrified as he felt.

"Never had a vacation?" Natasha asked, her voice gentle.

Steve shook his head. "The only times I wasn't working was when I was too sick to get out of bed." And even then, most of the time, it had taken the combined efforts of his ma and Bucky's ma, _and_ Bucky himself to keep him there.

Who was he if he wasn't constantly on the move? If he didn't have a goal to work towards or a mission to complete? If he wasn't constantly trying to prove himself worthy of the faith people had in him, or of the serum and the incredible gift he'd been given? 

"Well, there you go," Natasha said, and patted his hand before straightening. "This'll be good for you. And I'm sure you and Barnes have a lot to catch up on."

"Sure, I guess," Steve said, and finally grabbed his duffle bag. "I'll be in touch." This was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.

***

Natasha had just driven off when Bucky pulled around the corner, driving a beat to hell Chevy truck that had maybe been brown or orange once upon a time, but the paint had faded to a rust color. It looked like it was being held together by chicken wire and a prayer, but Bucky just hopped out of the driver's seat like this was somehow normal.

What the hell had Bucky been _doing_ with his time?

"Wow," Steve said, when he trusted himself to speak. "That's, uh. Did you steal it from a junkyard?"

"Not stole, but you're not far off on the junkyard part. I mean, I know, she's not much to look at, but the engine's pristine and the tires are new," Bucky said, kicking the side of one of the tires with a faint smile. The look was fond, affectionate even. He slouched against the front paneling, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Everything about his body language was relaxed and open, nothing whatsoever to suggest that he was the most lethally effective assassin in modern history.

He was so far removed from the skittish, closed-off man Steve had found in Texas, it was like looking at another person entirely.

"You..." He made a vague gesture, unsure what to say, what to do. Once again, he was face to face with the person he used to know better than he knew himself, and had no fucking idea how to act. "You bought a truck."

The space between Bucky's brows furrowed slightly as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "Yeah, is that...? Am I missing something here?"

"It's fine, it's just. Different," Steve finished, lamely. He wanted to kick himself. _Get a fucking grip, Rogers. This is_ Bucky _. You know how to talk to him._ "I...it's just...you just talked about my bike so much that I thought..."

Bucky shrugged, but the frown faded, which was a plus. "I've got a few feelers out for one, but a truck's more practical for the mountain roads."

That...made a lot of sense, actually. "Maybe you could get a dirt bike instead?" he offered, with an inward wince. So much for brushing up on his small-talk skills. He was just as glad Natasha wasn't around to hear any of this.

But Bucky just nodded in consideration. "You know, that's actually not a bad idea," he said, then gave Steve a quick once–over. "Alright, we gotta get you some clothes before we head up to the house."

Steve glanced down at his shirt and BDUs and combat boots, then back up at Bucky and his plain navy tee and worn blue jeans. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Is everything in your duffle black camo?"

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Then that's why. C'mon," Bucky said, and started down the sidewalk, a man with a purpose.

Steve hurried to catch up with him. "Buck, c'mon, I don't need –"

"Those are mission clothes," Bucky told him, not even slowing his stride. "You're not on a mission here, okay? You don't need to hide or blend into the shadows."

 _Don't need to hide or blend into the shadows._ Jesus, Bucky may as well start asking for the fucking moon while he was at it. Steve didn't know _how_ to do anything else these days. He'd been on duty since 1943. Who _was_ he without a mission or a mark?

Then Bucky pulled to a halt – so abruptly that Steve almost ran into his back – and turned to face Steve, his look determined, chin out, shoulders tense. The way he used to look right before the first bell was rung in his boxing matches.

"You should, uh...before we...I don't wanna start this whole thing with…. I mean... _fuck_." Bucky shifted from foot to foot, then blew out a short breath. A complete shift from just a few seconds ago. "The thing is, I asked Natasha to ask Stark to put a block on your phone. Both of them."

Steve blinked. There was a curious buzzing in his ears. "You did _what_??"

Bucky made an aborted move forward, then seemed to think the better of it, and stopped. "You promised me two weeks," he said, those blue eyes of his guileless and beseeching. "I'm not gonna spend it with you trying to run ops or lead missions from here."

Steve's hands balled into fists at his sides. "You had _no_ right –"

"Spare me," Bucky scoffed. "We both know you wouldn't be able to help yourself. Nat's promised to give me daily updates, so if anything major happens, I'll let you know."

Jesus, it was the winter of 1932 all over again. Bucky acting like he knew what was best, because he was the oldest – never mind that Steve hadn't needed his help in years. Steve had survived just _fine_ without Bucky in his life. He was the living embodiment of squared away.

"You're a fucking asshole."

"Yeah, well, I've been called worse," Bucky replied, accepting the insult with a shrug. "But, just so you know, Natasha and Stark and your other friend, Wilson – they all agreed with me."

Figured. He was surrounded by people who thought they knew what he needed better than he did. "I don't need a babysitter."

"No, you need to _rest_."

 _You need to rest._ Like he was some sort of _child_ up past his bedtime. Rage, ever present, threatened to boil over. His words were clipped, sharp as nails. "That's not up to _you_ to decide."

Fuck this. He wasn't some goddamned helpless damsel in distress who needed to be rescued or saved or whatever bullshit this was. He was a soldier, a leader; he needed to be in touch with his troops, he needed to be out there, making Hydra pay, he needed to make everything _right_ , needed to keep Bucky _safe_ and whole and protected, he'd made a goddamn promise –

_I know I don't need to tell you this, but it's your job to look after him now. Your turn to be the big brother, make sure he comes home safe._

He could see Winny's handwriting so clearly in his head, remembered the letter, how proud he'd been that he _could_ watch Bucky's back and protect him.

As if sensing the shift in his thoughts, Bucky's stance gentled. As did his voice. "Let me ask you something. Do you trust me?"

The reply was automatic, rote. "Of course I –"

"No." Bucky shook his head, the lock of hair falling back across his forehead. So much longer than how he used to wear it. "Do you trust _me_? Not who I used to be, but me. Right now, right here."

"I..." Steve blew out a helpless sigh. This again. How many times was he supposed to answer variations of the same damn question before Bucky believed him? "How can you even ask me that? Yeah, Jesus, of _course_ I trust you, Buck. Then, now, tomorrow, fifty years from now, doesn't matter."

Bucky was _family_.

Bucky nodded, like he'd either expected the answer or was pleased by it. Maybe both. "Then you gotta _trust_ me. Okay?"

He knew what Bucky was really trying to tell him. Bucky had _asked_ him to stand down. Asked Steve to come with him. After months of forced separation, Bucky was no longer afraid or unwilling to be around Steve – he'd sought Steve out, in fact. Had gone through a lot of trouble for the two of them to have this time, to have this space.

Steve would have to be a much different sort of man to deny Bucky anything that made him happy. Even if what he wanted was the opposite of what Steve wanted. He owed Bucky this much, at the very least.

He knew his duty.

"Okay, fine, we do it your way." He could trust Nat and Clint and Sam to carry on without him. And even if they were arresting people or bringing them in instead of giving them the painful deaths they deserved, well, at least Steve would know where to find them. And accidents happened all the time. "But I want those updates."

"You got it." Then Bucky squeezed his shoulder, and offered an easy grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "C'mon, we've got some shopping to do."

Two weeks, Steve reminded himself. He could give them this. Hydra would still be there at the end of it. There were still plenty of names on his list, plenty of people deserving his brand of punishment. He could afford to give himself and Bucky a bit of time to reconnect, try to make up for all the time they'd lost, all the years they'd never get back. 

It was _just_ two weeks. 

***

The vineyard, or whatever it was now, was both everything and nothing Steve expected. The second Bucky pulled into the drive and shut off the engine, he'd acted exactly the way he used to on Christmas mornings when they'd been kids. A bright smile to match his bright eyes, vibrating with energy as he'd tugged Steve around the house to the back deck. Steve had allowed himself to be pulled, resigned to indulging Bucky like he always used to.

The house was ranch-style, built with a rustic mixture of stone and wood, with floor to ceiling windows along all sides, and bright pink azalea shrubs planted all along the perimeter. And it was nice, sturdy, looked like a great place to live.

But then he saw the view from the deck.

The wooded mountains in the distance, the rolling slope of the hills and valleys before them, the vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see. Everything was _so fucking green_ – green and lush and _alive_ ; the pictures Bucky had sent hadn't done it justice. The air had a bite to it, crisp and clear, and he took a deep breath, allowed a little of the tension in his shoulders to ease. 

It reminded him of the countryside in Italy, of the small, tucked away villages the war had managed not to touch. His hands itched, for the first time in weeks, for his sketchpad.

Serenity, or something close to it, crept over him.

"Wow," he breathed, afraid that if he spoke too loud, he'd wake up back in his squalid little room in Córdoba, suffocating on stale air and regret.

"Yeah," Bucky murmured, stepping back to stand beside him. "The second I saw the place, I...I dunno, I just felt...something. I can't explain it."

Steve nodded, hungry gaze memorizing every blade of grass, every leaf on every tree. "I feel like we're the only two people on the planet."

"That's the idea," Bucky said, and leaned against him, companionable. Warm. _Real_ and solid and a miracle Steve didn't deserve. "The lack of neighbors was a definite draw."

"I can't believe the original owners were willing to sell." Steve gave him a small nudge. "You didn't scare it out of them, did you?"

Bucky laughed, the sound bright and relaxed, and the best thing Steve had heard in months. "Nah, I didn't need to. This was a rental property. The owner's summer home or some shit, I didn't exactly ask, and I really don't care. It was worth the price they were asking. I didn't even haggle all that much." 

Another way Bucky was different. The old him, God, he'd loved driving a bargain, would argue the price of a newspaper just for the hell of it. Steve had always thought it had been more about the thrill of the argument – Brooklyn to his core – than any real love for pinching pennies. The Barnes family hadn't been rich by any means, but they'd done alright for themselves, Bucky included. 

"So...you're gonna, what? Raise chickens?" Steve asked, gesturing at the coop just behind a small copse of trees. "Grow, I dunno, figs? Or grapes, or whatever it is people grow out here? Is that the plan?"

"Maybe, yeah," Bucky replied, with a smile that brought out the grooves around his mouth. _Bucky's_ smile, the one Steve knew by heart. His own heart skipped a beat at seeing it. "I haven't actually given it much thought. Maybe I'll just sit out here on the deck and eat cheese and drink wine every day and watch the leaves on the trees change color and listen to the birds coo and the chickens cluck or whatever. I can think of worse things to do with my time."

He sounded like he meant it. Like he couldn't imagine a better future than lazing around, nothing to do, nothing to accomplish, nothing to prove.

"You're really serious about this place, aren't you?" Steve softly asked. "You're not...you're not coming back to New York."

Somehow, he wasn't surprised when Bucky just shook his head. Some part of him had always known Bucky coming home was never an option.

"Maybe one day, sure. You and me, we can take the nostalgia tour together, see what's changed and what hasn't, and you can tell me stories of the old neighborhood. But I don't _know_ Brooklyn," Bucky said, with a quick, apologetic glance Steve's way. "Not like you do. Not like I used to. And out here, it's like... It's like this, alright –" 

The words tumbled over each other in a rush, so fast Steve instinctively leaned in so he'd catch them all. "I've been listening to a lot of different music lately, trying to figure out what I liked. And there was this one song I heard – God, I think me and Thor were in Colorado, maybe, doesn't matter – and I can't tell you who sang it or the name of it or anything, but there were these lyrics that just...stuck with me. _Is there hope for me, after all is said and done_ ," Bucky recited, with the saddest smile Steve had ever seen on another person, "– and, I mean, fuck, I felt like those words were just for me, y'know? And I think about them a lot, all the time, really –"

He paused, took a single shaky breath. But his gaze was steady when he looked at Steve – steady and solid and _peaceful_. Like a man who'd come to some sort of truce with his demons.

"I did a lot of bad shit, Steve. Unforgivable, terrible shit, shit that keeps me up at night. But I still believe there's hope. That maybe I deserve, I dunno, some sort of new beginning. I have to, or what's the point of…all this. And that's what this place is for me, y'know?"

Steve didn't know what to say. Every word was stuck in his throat, blocked by the lump that had taken up residence. So he just nodded through his tears and wrapped an arm around Bucky's shoulders. Bucky leaned against him, and the silence between them was _quiet_ for the first time in longer than Steve could remember. Unweighted by war or death or guilt or expectations. Just the two of them, breathing each other in the way they used to, back when things had been simple.

After a long while, Steve cleared his throat. "You've...you've really come a long way since Texas," he said in a thick voice. "Travelling around with Thor was good for you."

He owed Thor a debt he would never be able to repay, no matter how long he lived.

"It was," Bucky agreed, quietly. "He's a good man and he's been a good friend. But it helped, knowing you were only a text or call away. You did more than you know." 

The lump returned, but Steve smiled through it. "Hey, you did all the hard work on your own."

"Doesn't mean I can't be thankful," Bucky told him, although Steve knew it would always be the other way around. 

He had _always_ been the lucky one to have the entire Barnes family in his life.

Then Bucky turned, wrapped his arms around Steve's waist, his voice choked and rough when he whispered, breath hot in Steve's ear, "So, thank you."

"You're welcome," Steve murmured, and returned the hug with his own. Breathed Bucky in – all the ways he was the same, all of the ways he'd changed – and let everything else fall by the wayside. Bucky was _here_ , solid and real, and _knew_ him.

For the first time in seventy years, Steve had his best friend back.

Bucky's eyes had a telltale sheen to them when he finally let go, but Steve didn't mention it. He was pretty sure he had the same sheen in his own eyes.

"You, uh, you want the tour of the place?" Bucky asked, with a small, shy smile that Steve never remembered seeing before. Another new thing in a day full of them. "There's, um, a loft upstairs and a guest bedroom downstairs, so you can take your pick of where you want to bunk down."

Steve glanced back at the house. "I better take the guest room. Judging from the slope of the roof, I doubt I'll fit in the loft."

"Yeah, I don't think they designed it with anyone built like us in mind. I've got some ideas about how to remodel it, and the rest of the house, in fact," Bucky continued. "I was kinda thinking we could do it together, y'know, like a project?"

"You've got me for two weeks," Steve told him. "We can do whatever you want."

Bucky nodded. "Right now, let's get you unpacked and I'll show you around."

"Sounds good."

Bucky seemed to take a weird sort of pride in showing him around the house, leading him through the massive living room and kitchen, the showing off the master bedroom, as well as the guest room (which was bigger on its own than the apartment Steve'd had in Córdoba) and the loft. After Steve dropped off his bag, Bucky led him back outside to the herb garden, and pointed out the rhubarb and strawberry plants lining the path that led to the orchard. Then they walked out to the vineyards, lying fallow for now, but Bucky had apparently done some reading and some research and said he could either lease the land out to someone or maybe go into business for himself.

"Is that really what you want?" Steve asked, as they walked back up the hill. He couldn't imagine it. Sure, things were different now, but this? Bucky settling on a ranch and pulling weeds or planting seeds or cultivating grapes or whatever it was? This was...well, he didn't have the words for it. "To make wine?"

Bucky stopped and shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked over the vineyards. "Maybe," he said. "Could be fun. I mean, I don't know jack shit about wine, but I'm a pretty quick study."

"You were always smart," Steve commented, with more than a hint of pride. "I always thought you were wasted crunching numbers at Thompkins & Klein."

"I used to be an _accountant_?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah, Buck. Once you graduated high school, you went to work at the same office as your dad. Only, he was in sales."

"No shit," Bucky remarked, and bumped their shoulders companionably. A gesture as familiar to Steve as his own heartbeat. "So, what about you? What did you do?"

"I worked for the Eagle. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle," Steve clarified, when Bucky just gave him a puzzled look. "Used to rival The New York Times until it went out of business. Anyway, I was a type-setter, and sometimes I got to draw a few editorial cartoons."

"Shoulda had you on as an artist full-time," Bucky said, with a fond smile. "You're really fucking talented."

"Thanks." He had no idea why he felt like blushing. "So, uh, what's up with the rooster?" A lone grey–feathered chicken was strutting around the fence of the coop, head bobbing, feathers fluffed out to make it look like more of a threat.

"It's actually just one of the hens." Bucky worked his hair free from its tie and deftly started to twist it into a bun at the nape of his neck. Steve wondered if Thor had taught him or if some part of him remembered doing his sisters' hair back when they were young. "No clue how she gets out from under the fence, but she bobs around all day like she's on patrol, and then somehow gets back in the cage for feeding time and at night."

"You know, I could help you reinforce the fence so she can't get out, if you wanted."

Bucky gave him a blank look. "Why the hell would I want you to do that? If she's smart enough to have figured out how to escape, more power to her. I'm not gonna punish her for being clever."

Steve let out a small, thoughtful noise. "Well, when you put it like that..."

"I do," Bucky answered, and shrugged. "So, uh, you wanna see the pool now? I think maybe we should take down the fence – it's blocking the view of the mountains – and then I was thinking we could install a pump or solar panels to heat it up so we can swim in it year–round."

It all sounded like a helluva lot more than just a two week project, but Steve kept that to himself. 

"Sure," he said. "Lead the way."

Bucky Barnes, with a house that had a garden and a pool and his own private chicken coop. Now Steve had seen everything.

***

After dinner – a simple meal of grilled steaks and salad with fresh herbs and tomatoes from the garden – Bucky came out to the table on the back deck with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a chess board. He held up the board, his smile a little shy, just like earlier, but hopeful. "You up for a match?"

He probably should try to get some sleep, but he was still too keyed up. So he just nodded and beckoned Bucky to pass him the wine bottle. "Sure," he said. "You set up the board and I'll pour."

"New game or do you want to finish the one we were on?" Bucky asked, as he started setting out all the pieces.

"New," Steve decided, after a minute. He hated the idea of quitting, but somehow it just didn't seem appropriate to drag that game into this setting. "You were gonna check me inside twelve moves and we both know it."

Bucky grinned, wide and sardonic and achingly familiar. "Eight, but who's counting." 

"Really, you're gonna go there?"

"We can set it up and I'll prove it, but then you'd just owe me fifty bucks," Bucky replied, with an unrepentant shrug.

"Fuck off," Steve told him, and lifted a middle finger to drive the point home.

"That's what I thought."

Steve chuckled as he handed Bucky his glass. "Yeah, well, you've had practice playing against Thor, so that's an unfair advantage."

"I never played chess with Thor."

Steve glanced up, wondering if he looked as baffled as he felt right now. "Why not?" They'd traveled together for months - that didn't even make sense.

"Because it's _our_ game," Bucky explained slowly, like Steve should have known better than to ask. "I don't even remember if I ever played against anyone else."

"But you always beat me," Steve said, in a faint voice.

"Yeah, but I always had to work at it." Bucky tapped the board with his metal finger. "We playing or what?"

"Yeah. I guess we are," Steve said, and moved his pawn to E4. The Sicilian Defense.

***

_The cold was a slap to the face, the wind howling so hard Steve could barely open his eyes, but still he reached out, stretched himself as far as he could without falling himself. "Hold on, Buck, just –"_

_Metal shrieked and the scene changed, became Schmidt's plane, the ocean and the ice rushing closer and closer, Peggy's muffled tears ringing in his ears, her voice imploring him to find another way, even though there was no other way, and he didn't mind dying, not like this, not for something bigger than himself, not for a _cause_ –_

_And the scene changed again, became a cramped bathroom, blood spatters along white walls, a broken, crumpled body at his feet, and they deserved it, deserved every bit of pain and torture for what they'd done, and he kicked the body over to drive the blade home one last time, only it wasn't Hydra staring back at him, it was –_

 

Steve woke with a gasp, fingers reaching under the pillow and closing over air where his .45 used to be. Panic seized him, stole his breath, until he remembered. He'd left his gun with Natasha. He wasn't in Córdoba anymore, wasn't on a mission. He was in Glen Ellen. With Bucky.

He rolled out of bed, walked to the window to stare up at the sky. Stars twinkled down, shone bright and clear in a way he hadn't seen since nights on patrol during the War. And the quiet – _fuck_ , the quiet – he could hear the breeze whistling through the leaves, the soft hoos of the night owls in the trees, could hear his own heartbeat.

Bucky was safe, he reminded himself. Safe and real and healing and _present_ in a way that defied belief. Bucky wasn't going to wake up in the morning and walk out the door, wasn't going to leave Steve behind to pick up the pieces again all by himself. 

Not even three months ago, Steve had sat across a table from a lost, hurting man searching for answers and an identity and hope. And now, Bucky had a purpose, a life that he'd chosen for himself. He had a fucking _house_ , for Christ's sake. He'd come so far, regained so much of what had been stolen from him.

And yet, Steve couldn't shake the feeling that he'd somehow still failed. He should be out there, eradicating Hydra from the face of the earth. Not sitting around drinking wine and playing chess and pretending that somehow, everything was good. That _he_ was good. 

He knew better. Bucky could say what he wanted, but Steve knew the truth. And the truth was, Steve hadn't been a good man since the moment Bucky'd fallen from that train.

***

The next morning, James woke with the dawn, as he always did. Spent a few precious minutes stretched across his bed, enjoying the sound of the wind through the trees, the clucking of the hens and chatter of the birds. Sounds of life, of nature – it was almost like sleeping outside under the stars. Maybe he'd install a sunroof so he could gaze up at the sky at night.

He'd even managed to get a few good hours of true sleep, which was rare enough to warrant attention. No dreams of Hydra labs or cryo tubes or gunfire, of blood on his hands and the taste of iron on his tongue.

The respite couldn't last, but he'd enjoy it while it did.

But finally, he threw off the covers and stood. Went through his normal morning routine, then got dressed in shorts and a tank, and grabbed his trusty ball cap on the way out of the room. He was still learning the area, and he used the exercise as an excuse to get a better feel for his surroundings and his neighbors and the town itself. Slowly ingraining himself in the fabric of the community, making his presence known. He had no intentions of hiding or becoming a recluse. He was going to be an active part of his world.

Whoever James Buchanan Barnes was now, he was done being a ghost.

When he walked out into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water to take with him, Steve was sitting on the wooden bench of the breakfast nook, also dressed in shorts and a tank and sneakers. Unlike James, however, Steve looked like he'd barely slept. He didn't have the bruising under his eyes that a normal person would, but James could see it in the tight lines around Steve's mouth and the still way he was holding himself. Even his hair seemed lifeless and dull.

"You get used to the quiet," he said, by way of greeting. "Give it a day or two, you'll sleep better."

"That obvious?" Steve asked, with a wince.

"Only if you're looking for it." Then he motioned at Steve's clothes. "Planning on joining me or...?"

"Uh, yeah, if you don't...I mean, if you'd rather go out on your own, I can –" Still so careful not to presume, not to go beyond whatever imaginary boundaries he'd set between them.

Well, James had had enough of that, too. That road ran both ways, and James was pretty sure it always had. He had no conditions, and no limits. Not where Steve was concerned. It was past time he started to show Steve exactly what the gift of his friendship – his unwavering support – had meant to him these last months. All of his life, really, even the parts he couldn't remember.

And it was way past time he showed Steve that there was another path out there for him. That there was more to life than being a soldier.

"It's almost six miles down the mountain, then another three to get into the town square, and I like to stop by the little grocery store to get my coffee, because everyone is friendly and they actually know how to make a decent cup of French press. They also make the best coffee cake you've ever had in your life. If that's the sort of thing you might be interested in."

Steve smiled like James had given him the moon. Soft and aching and with that little eyebrow tilt he got when he was trying not to show too much emotion. His look was so grateful – _too_ grateful. 

_How long has it been since someone's treated you like a person and not a weapon to point at the world?_ James wondered, and made a vow to himself then and there to do his best to make sure Steve knew his true value had nothing to do with the shield he carried or the rank or title he held. That James didn't give a good goddamn about what Steve _did_ as much as he cared about who Steve _was_.

"Sounds great," Steve told him.

"I hope you have cash on you, because the last one to the store's buying."

"Is that so?" Steve asked, with a smirk. "You better have cash of your own."

"I like the confidence. It's misguided as fuck, but I like it," James replied with a grin, and clapped Steve on the shoulder with his metal hand as he headed towards the front door.

It was different running with Steve rather than on his own. Thor had offered to come with him to keep him company a couple of times, but he'd always deferred. He'd liked the solitude and the chance to clear his thoughts before they'd headed out on the road. But Steve...Steve was different, although he couldn't say why. Steve didn't try to make conversation or even say a word to him. Just kept easy pace, both of them tacitly waiting until they reached the bottom of the winding mountain road before starting their race. It was...easy. The silence between them was easy.

He couldn't say for sure, but he'd be willing to bet they'd never done this before – running just for the sake of running. Before the serum, there was no way Steve could have run a block, let alone a mile, not with how bad his asthma was. And during the War, well, they'd either been sprinting away from danger or rushing headlong into it, always on the go between this mission and that. And if they weren't on a mission, they were gearing up for one or debriefing or trying to snatch a few hours of shuteye or maybe seeking out companionship.

But here and now, with the last of the morning fog burning away in the sun and the sleepy town spread out before them like a patchwork quilt, James thought he could get used to this. To Steve's slow, even breaths beside him, to the way Steve's strides easily matched his own, to the little competitive grin Steve gave him right before he put on a burst of speed. Showing off the lungs and the legs simply because he could. Because he knew James would know what it meant that Steve could now run anywhere he wanted.

James just smiled and picked up the pace, though not even bothering to try to keep up. He didn't need to.

He was, after all, the only one who knew where the grocery store was.

***

James made the gate with almost a dozen steps to spare, and turned, triumphant, as Steve came into view around the corner. "You should feel ashamed of yourself, losing twice in a row. What would your Doc Erskine say?"

Steve snorted as he jogged to a halt, waited while James keyed in the code. "He'd commend me for not showing off my full strength and speed and allowing my friend to feel a sense of accomplishment and pride instead."

James snorted. "Is that what we're calling it?" he asked, unlocking the front door and heading right for the kitchen for some much needed water. 

"That's exactly what I'm calling it."

James tossed Steve a bottle from the refrigerator and turned. "Seriously, it's amazing you ever caught anyone on your Hydra list as slow as you run."

He froze with his own water bottle halfway to his mouth. The words hung in the air between them, and James was already cursing himself for pushing too far, too fast, what the fuck was he thinking –

– "Yeah, well, I'm not actually trying to kill _you_ ," Steve said, with a sardonic smirk. 

"No, I guess not," James replied, with an inward sigh of relief.

"But I still let you win," Steve continued, and the smirk morphed into an actual smile.

James drained his bottle and tossed it in the recycling bin. "Sure you did, buddy. Sure you did."

"So what's the plan for today?" Steve asked, after he polished off his water.

"Well, I gotta list as long as my arm of shit I wanna do to the place –"

"You mind telling me? Just so I know what I'm getting myself into," Steve added, with another one of those sun–drenched grins that hit James right in the solar plexus. So much better than the way he'd looked earlier in the morning.

"Hey, if you don't want to help, that's up to you –" 

"Sure, I'll just sit here and eat figs and let you do all the work," Steve said, with an angelic expression – eyes bright and open and honest – but James knew better. He was pretty sure that look had never fooled him.

He just grunted and rolled his eyes. "Please, you'd be begging for something to do inside a day."

"Yeah," Steve conceded, with a nonchalant shrug, "you're not wrong there. So tell me what the plan is."

"Well, for starters, I was thinking we could extend the deck all the way around the side of the house here, and maybe plant some cilantro and basil and spinach in the garden, and knock out that wall separating the kitchen from the living room to make a bigger living space – I like the concept of the open floor plan, y'know – and then we gotta paint this place something that's not whatever the hell this color is, and oh, we need to put up a perimeter fence and a few silent alarms –"

"Booby traps?" Steve asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Can't be too careful." James was sure Hydra had bigger issues to worry about these days, but that wasn't an excuse to get sloppy. He may not be hiding anymore, but he could still take basic precautions to make sure he and Steve were as safe as they could be.

"Guess not," Steve said. "So, where do we start?"

"It's a nice day out," James replied. "Be a shame to spend it indoors."

"You're right. It would."

Then they changed clothes - Steve in a pair of jeans and one of his new tees, and James in a pair of track pants and another tank top - and met out in the back yard. Steve got started on weeding the garden, while James grabbed the toolbox from the shed to start fixing the broken outdoor furniture. They worked together seamlessly, and it was familiar, so familiar, even if James couldn't remember too many _exact_ instances. He knew this feeling in his bones, this sense of being one half of a tandem. 

_It's like you're one brain with two bodies,_ Dum Dum had said once, awe in his voice when he and Steve'd had a full–blown discussion about how to execute a raid on a Hydra base all without saying a single word to each other.

James remembered making some joke and laughing about it later with Steve, but it had always been true. They'd worked so well together in the field because they'd had decades of shorthand to fall back on. A lifetime of relying on each other, of absolute trust that they'd have the other's back, no matter what.

He'd missed this feeling. Missed being part of a team. When he'd been the Winter Soldier, he'd had men he commanded from time to time on certain missions, but it hadn't been the same thing. Those soldiers had been loyal because Hydra demanded compliance in all things. The Howlies – _Steve_ – they'd all been loyal to each other out of a sense of camaraderie and love.

He wondered if Steve had that with his new team. With his Avengers. Certainly Thor seemed to love Steve and to trust him, and Natasha had gone above and beyond the call of duty in more than one way to make sure Steve wasn't killing himself. So why was it that James got the very real sense that Steve was the loneliest person he'd ever met? That the only time that hard, stoic mask of his dropped had been during their calls and texts.

Almost as if Steve could read his thoughts, he looked over and waved. His arms and shirt were streaked with dirt, and he had another across his cheek and forehead. He still hadn't shaved, and the sun hitting his beard glinted copper in the light. He looked good. Not as tired as he had this morning sitting at the table. The breeze ruffled his hair, sending his bangs over his forehead. The look was...familiar. Steve, smaller, skinnier, with longer bangs, brushing them out of his face, his eyes unbearably large. James wanted to reach between them and smooth the wrinkles between his eyes, brush the hair from his forehead.

"Need anything?" James called, even though, somehow, he knew the answer was no. Knew this was an excuse to start a conversation, which was what Steve really wanted.

"Nothing a long, hot shower won't fix," Steve replied, and gestured at him. "When'd you get so handy at carpentry?"

"No fucking idea," James cheerfully replied, as he inspected his work. He'd replaced all of the warped slats on the wooden chaise lounge, and sanded down the wobbly leg to one of the patio tables. "I thought maybe it was something from before I just wasn't remembering."

"Well, you were always handy around the house, but you were better at sewing than you were with a hammer."

He was young, maybe eight or nine or so, sitting beside his mother on the sofa in the front room, rain hitting the windows in a steady patter of sound. At their feet was a bassinet – Gracie, his mind supplied – and James knew if he ducked his head to peek under the canopy, he'd be able to see the shock of dark hair on her tiny head and her equally tiny fists waving in the air. On his lap was a swatch of dark cloth – a skirt, maybe, or a dress – and, at his side, he heard a lilting, patient voice counting the stitches as he carefully wove a needle and thread through the hem of the fabric.

"I used to mend the girls' clothes," he said, with a small laugh, as the image faded. "My mom taught me."

"Yeah, she did," Steve replied, with a pleased smile. "Taught both of us, said our future wives would thank us later. My mom, she was in charge of making sure we knew our way around a kitchen, but Winny was in charge of basic needlework and how to sew buttons."

"They called it Husband Training," James finished, and looked to Steve for confirmation.

"Yeah." Steve's eyes had a watery sheen to them, but James knew it was a good thing. A happy thing. "Came in pretty handy during the War, too, when we were out in the field."

"I remember her voice." Low and soothing, like a hot bath after a long day. "Your mom's voice, too. She used to...she taught us Irish songs." He sat hard on the ground, another memory coming to him, this one of peering from behind Sarah Rogers' skirt as she placed a cool, wet cloth over Steve's fevered forehead, the bed piled high with blankets, all but swallowing Steve's small, too still form.

" _Óho óho óho mo leana, Óho mo leana ina chodladh gan brón_..." he sang, the words spilling out of him in a broken rush.

He looked back to Steve, who looked like someone had punched the air right out of his lungs. He was so pale, so still, and his voice was barely audible when he picked up the melody in a thick voice. 

"... _A leana mo chléibh go n–éirí do chodlaigh leat, Séan agus sonas gach oíche i do chómhair..._ "

He stopped abruptly, then shot to his feet. "I'm sorry," he muttered, in a shattered voice, and pulled off his gardening gloves. He turned this way and that, like he wasn't entirely sure where he was, and when he turned those unfocused, blue eyes James' way, James knew Steve wasn't really seeing him at all.

"I'm sorry," Steve repeated, although James had no idea why, then Steve turned to walk down the sloping hill to the fields below, his gait unsteady. 

James watched him go, torn between wanting to chase after him to offer comfort or a shoulder to cry on, or at least someone to hit, and the instinctual knowledge that the last thing Steve needed right now was company. Steve had always hated anyone else seeing him cry.

"Fuck," he swore, and kicked out at the table, sending it flying. " _Fuck._ "

***

Steve hadn't returned by the time James called it a night and turned in. The hours had crawled by, stretched out lonely and thin. Steve had only been here a day, and already James had gotten used to his presence. To having him close by, within his line of sight.

He'd finally left the back door unlocked, and headed for bed, vowing to himself he'd find Steve first thing in the morning. That he'd make amends, even though he knew Steve would tell him he had no reason to feel remorse. And he knew, of course he did, that Steve wasn't upset at _him_ – Steve would probably apologize himself for running off, even though he didn't need to. But, still, the urge to make it right tugged at him.

He was still awake hours later, so he heard the turn of the door handle, the light fall of footsteps across the floor. Unmistakably Steve's. But it was only when he heard the door to Steve's room open, then shut, that James allowed himself to relax. To drift off, secure in the knowledge that Steve was safe.

***

It was the muttering that woke him. Low, the words indistinct, but still enough to pull James out of bed. He headed down the hall, bare feet silent along the thick carpet, and stopped when he got to Steve's bedroom.

"Steve?" he called softly. "You okay, buddy?"

No response.

He turned the knob, poked his head in the room cautiously. The curtains were pulled back, moonlight turning the room a silvery hue, and in the center of the large bed was Steve. It was a cool night, but despite the chill, Steve was bare–chested and had a fine sheet of sweat beading on his forehead. The sheets were tangled around his legs as he tossed his head from side to side, eyes screwed shut, mouthing something James still couldn't make out. But there was no doubt that Steve was in the grip of a nightmare.

He was across the room before he even thought about it, hand hovering just above Steve's shoulder. Should he try to wake Steve? Or maybe just keep an eye out if things got too bad? He knew from painful, personal experience that anyone who had tried to wake him up when he was in the grip of a nightmare ended up getting thrown across the room. And while he had no doubts he could hold his own against Steve if it came down to it, he wasn't up for patching up holes in his own walls. Or seeing the guilty, pinched look on Steve's face if punches were thrown.

Steve made another sound – hurt, broken, and so lost James' own breath caught – and that decided it. He couldn't just stand here and do nothing. Not if Steve was in pain.

He brought his hand down, barely brushing his fingers against Steve's skin. "Steve, wake up," he whispered.

Steve muttered something indistinct and twisted to grab at James' hand.

"Steve," James tried again, but the rest of what he'd meant to say died in his throat as Steve started tugging at him, all but yanking James down to the bed. James gave in to gravity, and stretched out beside Steve, tentative, still trying to decide on the best course of action. But, almost immediately, Steve turned, clutched at him like he was a lifeline. 

If this was what Steve needed, he could do this. 

He shifted, bringing their bodies into closer alignment, and Steve's breath evened out, the anxious muttering turning to soft noises that faded altogether as true sleep claimed him.

James leaned his head against Steve's, metal arm warming as he wrapped it around Steve's shoulders to tug him closer still. Now that he was here, he had vague memories of doing this during the War, of the two of them bunking together. Curled together like cats, sharing body heat during the cold winter months, and waking the other when the dreams turned dark and far too real. Looking out for each other, even in sleep.

" _Vy mogli by umeret', no sokhranit' tovarishcha_ ," he murmured, thumb brushing against the hairs at Steve's nape. "It's my watch, okay. I got this."

Then another memory swept over him, so quickly he felt dizzy with it. Him and Steve huddled together in the living room, the couch pillows scrunched together, James lying awake and straining to hear Steve's breaths, every wheezing inhale proof that Steve was still alive. Another memory followed on the heels of that one – holding his sisters close during a bad rainstorm, the boom of thunder rattling the windows. All three of the girls crowded around him like he was an anchor, clinging to him with chubby fingers, him drying their tears. Surrounding them with hugs and love, holding the darkness at bay.

He couldn't quite see their faces, but every day, he remembered more about them. Sticky kisses and smaller hands holding his tight while walking down the sidewalk, sharp elbows poking his side when he'd teased one of them, the stomp of feet and the flounce of dark curls when he'd pushed one of them too far. Remembered them climbing on Steve, no regard or care whatsoever that he'd been sickly or too skinny or that they sometimes had to talk extra loud to make sure he could hear them out of his good ear. Remembered how supper had always been a boisterous affair, everyone talking over everyone else, four different conversations going at once, his father at the head of the table, looking at them all in benign confusion, and his mother at the foot, her smile exasperated and fond.

But he still didn't remember the color of Grace's eyes or the slope of Becca's nose or if Alice looked more like their mother or father.

 _Patience_ , he told himself, as he pressed his forehead to Steve's, offering another point of contact between them. _Focus on the now._

Right now, Steve needed him to be a friend, a brother. Steve needed him to watch his back, even if he'd protest needing a protector to his dying day. But James knew, he'd had been that once. Had been a shield to others, been someone others had looked up to. He'd taken pride in doing the right thing. Maybe it wasn't too late to be that person again.

It wouldn't balance the scales, not by a long shot, but it would be a start,

***


	13. (Part XIII – "A Good Man")

Steve woke up by slow degrees, so warm he felt like he was in a cocoon, and feeling better rested than he had in months. Maybe years. Maybe Bucky really _was_ right, and one got used to the quiet.

He shifted to burrow deeper under the comforter and froze slightly when he realized that he wasn't alone in the bed. There was a hard, muscled body nestled next to his, and a heavy arm thrown across his waist. When he blinked open bleary eyes, he caught sight of the the silver glint of Bucky's metal arm.

His gaze traveled up, lingered for a moment on the angry red scarring spiderwebbing out from where the metal was fused to Bucky's skin, then further still until he met watchful blue eyes staring back at him.

"You were having a nightmare," Bucky murmured, his voice thick with sleep, even though Steve was pretty sure he’d been awake for awhile. He kept his arm where it was. "Tried waking you, but this was all that helped."

"M’kay." 

Not his best response, but he was still a little fuzzy–headed. How the fuck had he slept through Bucky coming into the room, let alone crawling in bed next to him? Normally, the barest hint of movement was enough to wake him.

Maybe it was muscle memory – part of him recognizing Bucky’s presence and remembering when they used sleep curled together under pillow forts as kids. Or how they’d bunked together during the War when space and heat were at a premium, with everyone doubling tents and sleeping bags. 

"Sorry," he offered, with a slight shrug that only served to put them in closer contact. 

"No reason to be," Bucky replied. "You wanna talk about what happened yesterday?"

Steve froze. Memories overlapped, created a broken kaleidoscope – his mother wiping his fevered brow, her voice low and soothing and _safety_ and love; Bucky crooning the same song yesterday in a surprisingly nice tenor (and just when had he learned to _sing_?), sounding as surprised as Steve that he’d remembered the words. Eighty years apart, and yet all Steve had heard was the same thing – the home he’d lost, the family he’d lost, the family he’d never get back.

_If only he’d tried harder, done more, been more…_

"No," he said.

"Okay." No hesitation. "But I just want you to know I didn’t mean to –"

"It’s fine." It wasn’t. "It’s not like you can help what you do or don’t remember. I don’t need an apology."

Bucky looked at him quietly. His eyes were so blue in the muted light – like a painting by Suvée or Garemyn. Luminous and warm. "What about the dreams?" he asked. "Can you talk about those?" 

It wasn’t precisely phrased as a request.

"I don't always remember them." Which was true, to a point. "Mostly...I dream about you or Peggy. Or sometimes my mother or your sisters or... _before_." Which was _also_ true, to a point. 

They'd also been getting worse for months. He hoped Bucky wouldn't ask him to elaborate.

"Doesn't sound like the kind of dreams that would have you acting the way you were last night," Bucky said, reasonable and calm, but not letting Steve wiggle out of anything.

Steve sighed. It was easier to deflect a thorny conversation via text or a phone call. Harder to do when Bucky was lying next to him, sleep–warm and real, offering a sympathetic ear and a literal shoulder to cry on. Here they were, decades later and how many horrors later, and Bucky was _still_ trying to protect Steve from the evils of the world. Like Steve hadn’t spent the last few months making damn sure _he_ was the monster under the bed. 

"Doesn't matter," he said.

Bucky looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he let out his own sigh. "I guess I don't have much room to talk about evasive maneuvers, considering."

"Hey, if you wanna talk about yours –"

"Nice try. But if I talk, you talk, and I don't think you want that," Bucky replied, sounding more amused than mad, which was something. Steve was also grateful as hell that Bucky wasn't pushing the issue. Maybe one day – far off in the future, when they were both in their 90s for real – they could trade horror stories.

"Thanks," he said, belatedly, gesturing between the two of them. "For, uh, y'know. Staying. Keeping watch." As embarrassing as it was to find out that he needed another person with him in order to finally get some uninterrupted sleep, it wasn't like Bucky was a total stranger. 

_Sometimes, Steve, I swear, if you didn't have me around, there wouldn't be anyone who truly_ got _you..._

"That’s what friends are for, right?" Bucky replied, with a smile. His hair had come out of its ponytail at some point during the night, dark wisps falling onto his forehead every time he moved. So different, but somehow unmistakably Bucky.

"Yeah, I guess."

Bucky cocked his head, went still for the longest time. Steve couldn’t get a read on him at all. Then he seemed to come back into himself. "You wanna hit the road, go for a run?"

"Yeah...that, uh, sounds great." Steve could use the exercise to clear his head, make sense of his still jumbled thoughts. "Meet you in the kitchen in five?"

"You bet," Bucky said, and rolled neatly out of the bed, coming to his feet in one smooth motion. He was out the door a second later, taking all of the warmth with him. Steve was honest enough with himself to admit he missed it.

***

Bucky made it to the sliding glass doors of Glen Ellen Village Market a step and a half ahead of Steve, and his smirk was firmly in place when he turned. "You really _are_ getting slow in your old age."

"Keep telling yourself that," Steve countered, and rolled his eyes. "We both know I let you win."

"You _still_ on about that? Two days in a row?"

"I’m a very good friend, what can I tell you." This teasing, this banter, it was good, familiar. A rapport they’d built back up over the last couple of months of texts and calls, so reminiscent of how they used to be.

"Uh huh, sure," Bucky drawled. "Tell me, were you always a sore loser or is this a new thing?"

Steve shoved playfully at Bucky’s shoulder. "You’re a terrible person."

"Yeah, and you’re a terrible liar, so I think we’re even." Bucky jerked a thumb down the spice aisle. "We need some Hungarian paprika for the _marha pörkölt_ ," he said. "Meet you at the register?"

"You really think you remember how to make it?" For just a second, Steve thought maybe he’d taken the joke too far, but Bucky just snorted and shook his head.

"It’s basically beef stew, Stevie, how hard can it be? Oh, and I want an extra piece of coffee cake, since you're buying. _Again_ ," he added, and clapped Steve’s back with the biggest fuck–you grin imaginable.

Let a friend win two lousy footraces and this was his reward. "Definitely kicking your ass tomorrow." 

Bucky spread his arms out and made a _c'mon_ motion. "We'll see," he said, and walked down the aisle before Steve could get in the last word.

It was remarkable how easily Bucky could still get under Steve's skin these days. Some things truly never did change. 

Steve got their coffee and the four biggest pieces of coffee cake they had (because if Bucky was getting an extra piece, then Steve for damn sure was), and went up to the checkout line to pay. The same cashier from yesterday – her nametag said Melissa – gave him a smile. 

"You and your boyfriend are new in town, right?" she asked, as she rang up everything. "Bought the rental property up the mountain? The old Drummond place?"

Steve shrugged, and unzipped his money clip from the inside pocket of his running shorts. "No, not me, that was all Bu – wait, what?"

"That'll be $24.86," Melissa said, "and, I just mean it’s nice, y’know, seeing you two settling in so well so fast –"

"No, I mean, my _what_?" Steve asked.

"Your boyfriend?" Melissa said, with a slightly puzzled look. "Or are you married? I mean, you guys’re really cute together –"

"Oh, um, right." Steve let out a slightly strangled laugh. "Oh, Buc – _James_ , I mean – he's not – I mean, we're not...like that."

"Oh. Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I just assumed..." Her face was as red as her hair. "My mom said she sold the house to a couple, and I just thought… And you two just seemed so close and all."

Close. That was certainly one way of putting it. 

"Yeah, I guess we are," he offered, certain he was blushing as hard as she was, although he had no idea _why_ he was even embarrassed.

"Hey, sorry about that, there were four different kinds, so I figured, fuck it, and got ‘em all – oh hey, how's it going? Weren’t you here yesterday?" Bucky asked, then looked back and forth between Steve and Melissa, brows furrowing. "Everything okay?"

Melissa nodded quickly, ponytail bobbing, and snatched at Bucky's basket. Her cheeks were still flushed. "Peachy," she said. "Your boyfr – _God_ , I mean, uh, that is...um..."

"We were just talking about how you and I grew up together," Steve cut in, giving her a small, commiserating smile. He'd had enough experience with nervous blather to be sensitive to it.

He couldn’t even say he blamed her for coming to the conclusion she had. He and Bucky had always been close, living on top of each other the way they had growing up. And even though they were both so different now, and so much had happened to each of them, they’d still managed to ease into a new familiarity over the last few months. His friendship with Bucky was the most substantial and longest–lasting relationship Steve had ever had. The most meaningful person in his life, outside his own mother, and Peggy. 

Bucky was, in a very real sense, the closest Steve had ever come to a soulmate. It didn't mean any less to him just because the relationship was platonic.

"Yeah, we did," Bucky replied, nudging Steve with his flesh elbow. "He was a lot smaller back then. Used to come up to here." He motioned to his shoulder.

Steve just sighed and moved Bucky's hand to his throat. "I wasn't that short, _Jesus_."

"Two inches, buddy, that's nothing."

"That's not what _she_ said," Melissa muttered, then clapped a hand over her mouth. This time, every bit of blood drained from her face. "Oh fuck – I mean, goddammit – _Shit_ –"

Bucky threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Hearing it was like rewinding to the best parts of Steve's childhood, the best parts of his _life_. Another miracle in a few days already filled with them. After everything Bucky'd been through, he was still capable of expressing pure, unadulterated joy.

 _This_ right here was worth every bit of blood Steve had shed during his missions. That sound, infectious and cheerful and deeply amused, was why he needed to get back in the field as soon as possible, to make sure Hydra could never touch Bucky again. There was _nothing_ he wouldn’t do to make sure Bucky was safe here in this new life he’d created for himself.

He was sure some of what he was feeling still showed on his face when he turned back to Melissa. Who was looking at them both like she was getting ready to topple over at their feet. 

"Ignore him, he has the humor of a ten year old sometimes," he sighed, with his most put–upon shrug.

"What, it was funny," Bucky said, wiping at the tears of mirth pooling in the corners of his eyes. " _That's not what she said_ , fucking hilarious."

"Right, um, so, um, is that all?" Melissa asked, in a falsely bright tone. 

"Yeah," Steve said, elbowing Bucky to get him to behave. "I think we're good."

***

After they got back to the house and showered, they met back in the kitchen to peruse Bucky’s To Do List.

"We could start on the deck," Bucky suggested, with a quick glance Steve’s way. "At least doing the prep work for it before we need to get the lumber."

Steve grabbed a blank sheet of paper and a pen, quickly sketched out the current deck, and then started filling in what Bucky wanted as an extension. Then he slid it Bucky’s way. "That look about right to you?"

"Yeah." Bucky nodded, and let out a low whistle. "You...that was...really impressive."

It was just a rough drawing, nothing to warrant that look on Bucky’s face. So why the hell did he feel like blushing _again_? "Well, if that’s your plan, I just...it seems like a really big job, compared with everything else on the list," he said. "I’m not sure we’d be done with it before I have to leave."

Bucky’s lips thinned. The temperature in the room felt like it dropped by a good ten degrees. "If you say so."

What the fuck. Bucky _knew_ his stay here was only temporary. This was a nice change of pace and all, and he loved that he and Bucky were reconnecting, but he couldn’t afford to get used to this. This life was Bucky’s future, not his.

Then Bucky exhaled, a short sharp huff that did nothing to dispel the tension. "Alright, what about tearing down the drywall between the living room and the kitchen."

Steve turned to study the wall in question. He could see why Bucky would want to knock it out – its absence would really open the kitchen and dining area, and create that open floorplan Bucky’d talked about the other day. But it had to have been put there for a reason, right? 

"You sure you don’t need the wall for structural purposes?" he asked.

"Gee, why didn’t I think of that already," Bucky snapped, gaze going hard again.

Steve bit back the urge to snap right back. He was _trying_ to be helpful. "I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to –"

"Yeah, I know. Just...it’s fine," Bucky said, and a little of the frostiness left his eyes. "It’s not a load bearing wall, if that’s what you’re worried about. No wires or plumbing run through it, either."

"Okay," Steve replied, at a loss on what else to say. He missed the easiness from just a few minutes earlier.

Thankfully, some of the friction between them seemed to ease slightly once they broke out the sledgehammers and crowbars. There was something cathartic about hitting something – maybe not at full strength, considering, and maybe not quite as satisfactory as driving his fist into the face of a Hydra agent – but it was an acceptable substitute. Bucky’d turned on the radio, and hummed along to every tune. The music was bright and poppy, nothing at all like the soulful, slow, jazzy songs Bucky used to like, but it seemed to suit this new him. And it was pleasant enough background noise. Some of the melodies were even pretty catchy. 

Even through the dust and rubble, Steve could already see the difference in the room. Once Bucky got the carpet ripped up and the walls painted and the furniture in place, it was going to look amazing. It was almost a shame Steve wouldn’t be here to see it all put together. But he’d do what he could while he was here, and maybe, once he was certain Hydra was no longer a credible threat, he could come and visit. 

"You really are taking his whole do-it-yourself thing to heart," he said, when they took a break to get the saw so they could cut out the wall studs.

"Yeah, I mean, it’s fun. I have all these choices now," Bucky replied, with a small smile. "Options and time and the money and freedom to make whatever decisions I want about _whatever_ I want."

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bucky's grin was brilliant, lit up his eyes and seemed to spread all the way through his body. "You know what? It really fucking does."

Steve couldn’t get over how different he looked these days. He'd pulled his hair into a small bun at his nape, and the metal of his arm gleamed dully under all the dust. He was dressed in a pair of threadbare jeans, and his t–shirt had two jagged tears, courtesy of a couple of protruding stud nails.

The old Bucky had always taken great pride in his appearance. In making sure he looked sharp, put together. But the man in front of him was someone new. Still Bucky, still his best friend, but there was so much more to him that hadn't been there before. 

"You wanna get out the board after we call it a day?" Bucky asked, and this was good, they were good, they were learning each other. It was all Steve had hoped for, and far more than he deserved.

"Sure," Steve said, and offered a smile, happy they were back on better footing. "Although we both know you’re just humoring me at this point."

Bucky paused in the act of grabbing the saw, and looked up, his look cool again, calculated, and more than a little disconcerting. "You know, it was sorta funny at first, but I’m not laughing anymore."

"Laughing about what?"

Bucky straightened back to his full height. But he wasn’t the same relaxed, smiling man he’d been not even a minute ago. He was coiled now, alert, the perfect soldier. "I mean, I got it at first. You didn’t really know me all that well just yet, and you didn’t want to scare me off, and it was a good excuse to stay in touch. And I appreciate it, I do, but it’s gone on long enough," he said, his voice flat, no hint of inflection. But Steve heard the danger in it all the same.

He planted his feet and cross his arms. "You mind telling me what the fuck you’re talking about?"

"Stubborn to the bitter fucking end, it’s a wonder I never strangled you growing up," Bucky remarked, then blew out a short breath. "I want you to tell me the next five moves – yours and mine – in our match."

"What?" Steve dropped his arms, and stared at Bucky in shock. "I can’t calculate out what you’ll –"

" _Bullshit._ " Bucky stalked forward a step, then stopped himself. But his eyes blazed with so much anger that it stopped Steve in his tracks. "I _remember_ you during the War – you could plan out trajectories and enemy troop movements in your head in seconds. The way you used your shield and all the angles you plotted, all while running and moving and ducking out of the way of flying fists and bullets? It was like watching a master artist paint. But you're gonna stand here and tell me that outmaneuvering me at _chess_ is beyond you? Are you trying to insult my goddamn intelligence?"

Steve reeled back at the suddenness of the attack. What the _fuck_? "That’s different –"

"Fuck you. It's condescending as hell. You're better than this." He stomped past Steve, then whirled around, jabbed one of the metal fingers at him. "How long have you been holding yourself back? Since the serum? _Before_? Is that what you've been doing in our races, too? You think I can’t handle how good you really are, is that it?"

_I want you to promise me something...stay as you are. A good man._

And where the fuck had that gotten him? What was the _point_ of being good if he couldn't save the people he cared about the most?

His fist flew through the air, punched through what was left of the drywall like it was paper. It didn’t do a goddamn thing to quell his own rage. "What does it _matter_ how good I am? It wasn't enough to save you. All that new strength they pumped into me, all those new smarts, and you still slipped _right_ through my fingers. _All_ I had to do was grab you and I couldn’t even do that much."

Bucky'd _still_ fallen into Hydra's clutches a second time, and Steve had slept right through it. Had failed the person who mattered the most to him when he was _needed_ the most. And instead of being out in the field, punishing those responsible for taking his and Bucky's lives away from them, he was _here_ , doing home renovations and playing chess.

"You saved the _world_ ," Bucky said, quiet now – a marked contrast to the anguished scream Steve heard every single time he closed his eyes. "That's more important than saving one man, no matter who they are. You did the right thing letting me go."

"Don’t you _dare_ say that to me." Steve pushed Bucky hard enough he stumbled back a step; but instead of the fight he was expecting, Bucky just tilted his head and gave him a disappointed look.

"I’m not gonna fight you, Steve. You wanna hit something, you can always hit the wall again, or I can build you a punching bag." His throat worked when he swallowed, his chin tilting up. "But I am _never_ raising my hand to you again, no matter what."

For a single, spun–out moment, Steve was back on the helicarrier, battered and bleeding out, welcoming the metal fist racing towards his face, because it meant this would all be over soon.

 _Then finish it. Because I’m with you –_

_I have no interest in harming anyone._

The anger drained out of him as suddenly as it had appeared, left him hollow and tired. "I should be out there, Buck. I shouldn’t _be_ here. I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want me to be."

It wasn't even like Bucky didn't have a right to be mad at him for how he'd been acting. Because Steve _had_ been holding himself back. Here Bucky was, making all of this progress and Steve was still treating him like he was still the same man he'd been in Texas. And he wasn't. He was so much better now, better than Steve thought he could be. The better man in all the ways that mattered.

Bucky picked up Steve's fist, wrapped his own hand around it, his thumb sliding across Steve's knuckles. Slow and deliberate. "You’re _exactly_ where you need to be right now."

"It doesn’t feel like it," he replied, bitter and aching, and God, he was so tired of _aching_.

"You’ll get the hang of it." Then Bucky smiled at him, slow and beautiful, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Showing the laugh lines around that generous mouth. It hurt just to see it. 

He ground out the words through a dry throat. "I don't know _how_."

Bucky’s gaze softened. "Well, for a start, stop thinking about the world outside these walls. Your friends are doing fine, they’re bringing the bad guys in, so just relax."

Relax. That would be a first. "Maybe I could work up to that," he offered, because Bucky was trying – he’d put in so much hard work, he'd come so far already. How could Steve _not_ give him this? 

Bucky let out a small laugh that sounded like relief. "Yeah, okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How about we just start with you not holding back during our races and our chess matches. Can you do that much?"

"Yeah." Steve swallowed. Nodded. He _could_ do this. Eleven more days to just _be_. Hadn’t he earned the right to that much, at least, after all he’d lost? "Yeah, I can do that."

***

_Goldie's Gym smelled like stale sweat and liniment oil, and was probably held together by duct tape and spit, but Bucky knew the owner, which meant they could use the ring and the bags and gloves for free. Right now, Steve was just thankful they could come in early to get some work in before anyone else got there._

_"Elbows up, Steve, keep 'em up," Bucky told him, pushing at Steve's elbows. "You start dragging and you've already lost the match."_

_Steve just nodded around his mouthpiece and jabbed at the punching bag._

_"Better. And remember your footwork. I know you don't believe me, but there are times when you're gonna want to dance _out_ of the way of someone's fist," Bucky said, with a grin, and a tap to Steve's gloves. "Remember, boxing is like chess, alright. There are all kinds of strategies, but you gotta make it work for you. And the only way to do that is practice."_

_Steve nodded again, a sponge soaking up every bit of knowledge he could. He wouldn't let Bucky down. He'd kick ass on his physical, join his best friend on the front lines and watch Bucky's back the way Bucky had always watched his. No way was he letting Bucky join this fight without him being there. They were brothers, and brothers stuck together, no matter what._

***

Two days later, after they’d finished demoing the wall and ripping up the carpet, James got the email that the last few pieces of furniture he'd ordered for the living room were ready for pick up. He and Steve were supposed to be getting a start on the perimeter fence (and taking a break from working indoors so much), but maybe an afternoon off would be a good thing. 

"You wanna head down with me to pick up the table and chairs and wood for the bookcases? Thought we could haul the debris down to the junkyard while we’re at it," he said, strolling into the kitchen to find Steve standing in front of the open refrigerator door. "Steve, you okay?" 

"Huh?" Steve jerked his head around in surprise, then guiltily shut the door. "Uh, sorry. I was trying to figure out what to have for lunch. What'd you need?"

Steve looked like he was about a million miles away, but James didn’t press the issue. He’d given Steve enough to think about, and Steve _had_ been trying to be more present the last couple of days. James didn’t want to derail their progress by demanding too much too soon.

"Seward's emailed," he said, instead. "Thought we could go into town and pick everything up, maybe have lunch at Cast – I wanted to pick the vigneron's brain about what the hell to do with the vineyard we've got now."

"Sure, sounds great," Steve replied, with a relieved look. "Beats trying to scrounge around for something."

"If only your mother could see you," James lamented, with an aggrieved sigh. "All her supposed hard work teaching you to cook..."

Steve just snorted. "She taught me – us – just fine, but that doesn't mean I always want to cook. Sometimes having someone else bring my meal to me is a good thing."

"Whatever you say."

Steve shoulder–checked him as they made their way out to the truck. "I do say, so hush."

They climbed into the cab – James behind the steering wheel – and strapped themselves in. "Hey, you mind if we listen to the game?" Steve asked, his fingers hovering over the radio controls as he looked at James for permission.

"Knock yourself out," he said, and eased them out of the driveway and down the hairpin curves of the mountain road with ease. 

"Shame the season's almost over," Steve observed, as the announcers came back from the commercial break to call the third inning. Oakland A's vs Seattle Mariners, both teams apparently battling for the dubious honor of _not_ winding up in last place in their division. 

"Why's that?"

"We were gonna try to go to a game, remember."

"There's always next year." With any luck, Steve would still be right here with him when April rolled around. They still hadn't talked about what had happened during the months he and Steve were apart, but James would tie Steve down if he had to in order to get him to listen to reason. 

If James had any say in the matter, Steve was never taking up arms again. He’d done his part to make the world a safer and better place. It was time for everyone else to chip in and pick up the slack.

"Maybe we could go see the Dodgers in the spring," he said, giving Steve a sidelong glance. Planting the seeds for the future. A future without bloodshed or torture or regret. One where Steve stayed here with James and relearned how to be a person, and not a weapon. "I've heard the stadium in Los Angeles is really pretty."

"I don't care how pretty it is, it's not Ebbets," Steve scoffed. "Bet it's not as easy to sneak into, either."

James gunned the engine once they hit the highway. "We used to sneak into Ebbets?"

"As much as we could," Steve told him. "As broke as we were back then, we'd have never gotten to see any games in person if that outfield fence on Bedford hadn't been so easy to crawl under."

Somehow, James wasn’t surprised to hear it. The two of them, smaller and younger and reckless, daring each other to sneak in so they could watch the Dodgers play. "I can't believe we never got caught."

"We did once. Summer of '31. Security guard made us as we were shimmying our way inside and started chasing after us. Thankfully, we were playing the Yankees that day, so it was a pretty big crowd, and we were able to shake him. But, you were too scared to try again the rest of that summer, so we just listened to the games on the wireless."

"I bet you tried to talk me into trying our luck again, too, didn't you?" James asked, with a grin.

Steve returned it, playful and wry. "Only every home game."

"I knew it." James was pretty sure Steve had always been the one to suggest their more dangerous stunts. "Hey, wasn’t there a player who lived in our neighborhood? You...you used to heckle him sometimes at games, right?"

He could see it as clear as day. Steve, with his deceptively deep voice and his inventive, never ending supply of insults and wisecracks for the visiting batters, _and_ the home team when they weren’t doing so hot. That slender body vibrating with energy and life, giving unsolicited advice and commiserating with everyone around them in the stands. His almost encyclopedic knowledge of every player.

Steve grinned. "Of _course_ you remember that. Yeah, Max Rosenfeld. He wasn’t on the team all that long, though. Alright fielder, but man, some of the swings he took. He deserved every bit of scorn we heaped on him."

"Yeah, that sounds familiar. Bet you were a real rabble rouser."

"Now you sound like Sister Agnes," Steve chuckled. "She thought I was a terrible influence on you."

"I’m sure she was right."

"Of course, she was better than Sister Mary. _She_ used to call me a corrupter and a Communist."

James just let out an amused snort. "Well, I guess it just goes to show that the good sisters didn't know everything." Steve, accused Communist, went on to become Captain America, whereas James was the one who'd been turned into a Soviet weapon. The very definition of dramatic irony.

"Yeah, I guess so." Steve smiled, his shoulders shaking slightly when it turned into a full laugh. The days of not having to dye his hair, and spending his mornings outdoors running, had started turning it lighter, a rich honey–gold now. And the shadows from the passing clouds outside outlined that stubborn set to his jaw and strong profile and the absurd length of his eyelashes. 

He was beautiful, James realized. Steve Rogers, his oldest and best friend, was breathtakingly beautiful.

Had he always thought that? He didn't think so. Couldn't remember an instance where he would have. Beautiful used to be a word exclusively assigned to women – to mysteriously feminine smiles and the lush lines of the female body. This realization about Steve felt... _new_. New, and based in the here and now. Wholly unrelated to who James used to be. 

But that was a good thing. And this feeling was, perhaps, also a good thing.

"If only everyone could see us now," Steve said, once the laughter subsided. He swiped at the tears under his eyes. "I'm sure no one we knew back then would have pegged you as a farmer and me as the hired help."

"Except for the part where I'm sure as hell not paying you," James replied, the banter automatic by this point. Something he could do in his sleep.

"You're right," Steve said. "I'm living solely off your charity, which is definitely something everyone from the old neighborhood could have guessed."

"I think you're underestimating everyone we knew, buddy." It was still a shock that Steve had never actually guessed just how much he was admired before he'd gotten the serum. James didn’t remember a lot, but more and more was coming back to him from their childhood. Steve, skinny and short and sick as all hell most of the time, and with a chip on his shoulder easily twice his size – but Jesus, he'd burned as bright and hot as a comet streaking across the night sky. James thought that was the real reason Erskine had picked Steve for Project Rebirth. Not because of his big heart or his fierce desire to do the right thing and fight the righteous fight – but because he had seen that Steve was made for much bigger and better things.

"Maybe I am," Steve replied, drumming his fingers on his knee to a beat only he could hear. "But that's the past. We're making new memories now, right?"

"Yeah, Stevie. We are." They were doing it already, had been building those blocks for months. Since a brightly lit diner in Texas and the best apple pie James'd had since 1943. 

Thank God Steve had come after him. Thank God he didn't know how to give up or give in, because James knew without a doubt that he'd still be out there, lost and drifting and rudderless, if Steve hadn't found him when he had.

He glanced once again at Steve. Drank in the sight of him, all of the little details that he'd never noticed before – the elegant curve of his neck, the long taper to his fingers, the way his beard emphasized his mouth, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed – and once again, the thought came to him. Beautiful. Like an angel visiting Earth or some other otherworldly being. Larger than life.

"You should know, I kissed Thor," he blurted out. Froze in place as what he said trickled into his brain. _Fuck._ What the hell was he even saying? Why had he _said_ that?

"Um." Steve twisted in his seat and gave him a puzzled frown. "You did what?"

He swallowed, nerves skittering across his spine. Kept his eyes glued to the road, didn't dare to look Steve's way again. "I kissed Thor," he repeated. 

"Uh, alright? Should I be...? Um. I don't know what you want me to say here, Buck."

"I liked it. The kissing, I mean," James clarified, even though he knew it was obvious. He'd started this conversation, he may as well brazen it out. "But...I don't remember ever kissing another man."

"Oh, is that why...? Well, um, as far as I know, you never have. I mean, until now, obviously," Steve replied and, when James risked a quick look, Steve had relaxed back into his seat. "Is that…something you want now? To be with men?"

"Maybe." James hadn't given it much thought, actually. He was still attracted to women, still thought about sex with them when he jerked off – but he _had_ been the one to initiate the kisses with Thor. Had just spent the last however many minutes thinking of Steve as beautiful. So maybe...maybe. 

Things were different now. _He_ was different now. And maybe that meant wanting different people. 

_You are not the man you once were. Perhaps this new you has different desires and wants._

"I don't know," he finally added. "But I think maybe I _do_. Like men now, I mean. That’s okay, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Steve assured him. In his corner, on his side, the way he'd been in every memory James had. "Bucky...you can do _anything_ you want. Be with anyone you want. There are no rules. Just...do what makes you happy."

 _You do_ , James wanted to say, but stilled his tongue. Steve wasn’t ready to hear it yet.

***


	14. (Part XIV – "The Kind You Save")

Steve awoke with a gasp, breath hitching through too tight lungs. The ghost chill present in the air, pimpling the hairs on his arms. The ice digging sharp claws under his skin, freezing him in place. Then he felt a warm, dry hand rest on his shoulder, and he instinctively relaxed, the sob lodged in his throat dissipating into a long, drawn out sigh. 

"You were having another nightmare," Bucky said, after a minute.

"Yeah." He shifted so he was on his back, met concerned blue eyes peering at him from behind a dark curtain of messy hair. The dream – the nightmare – had just been that. A dream. Bucky was here, sitting next to him on the bed. Beautifully and inarguably alive. 

"Sorry," he added, embarrassed. He should be better than this.

"Why?" Bucky asked, with a frown. "It's not your fault. It's not like you can help them anymore than I can help mine."

Except Steve's nightmares _were_ his fault. His mistakes and failures coming back to haunt him every night. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said, offering the only apology he could.

Bucky just made a face and rolled closer so he was more or less spooned against Steve's side. Hard muscle and warm skin and cool metal from where he rested his arm on Steve's stomach. "I was up," he said.

"Still sorry." But Steve took the hint and snuggled deeper into Bucky's arms. Placed a hand over the metal plates, smooth as they shifted under his touch. It really was a remarkable piece of engineering and biomechanics. "You know, it's funny," he started, "but your dad would have gotten such a kick out of your arm."

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, his breath tickling Steve's ear.

He shivered slightly. Nodded. "Yeah, you got your love of science and mechanical engineering from him. He used to let us help him tinker with the car's engine or fixing the transistor radio – he liked knowing how things worked."

" _Being a man means knowing how to fix things when they break_ ," Bucky recited, with a small laugh. "I remember."

"Yeah. He said that to us all the time." Steve wondered if even someone as competent and intuitive as George Barnes could fix whatever was broken inside _him_. Or if he'd even bother to try.

"Is it bad that I'm a little grateful to Zola for this?" Bucky asked, twisting his arm so the plates shifted again. Steve followed the movement. "I mean, I know how it sounds, but...in a way, he saved my life. Part of me...I'll always owe him."

Steve jerked his head up to Bucky's face, horrified. " _Fuck_ that," he stated, succinctly. 

Bucky sighed. "I don't mean I want to go back to working for Hydra or anything, alright, just that –"

"I know what you meant. And you don't owe them a goddamn thing, especially not your fucking gratitude." He put his hand over Bucky's, squeezed. "You've _more_ than earned your arm and your life and everything else."

"I haven't, not yet. But I'm trying to." 

Bucky flipped his hand over so their palms were sliding together, metal to flesh, fingers lacing together. It should have felt weird, holding hands like this, but, somehow, it didn't. It felt natural, almost. Like this was something they'd always done. Steve wasn't sure why that was, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

"You don't have to _earn_ anything," he said. "Understand?" Held Bucky's gaze until Bucky let out a shaky breath.

"Yeah. Thanks," he replied, quietly. Then: "I should probably let you get back to sleep."

"You can stay," Steve offered, before he could talk himself out of it. Reminded himself that it was okay to ask for help. Plus, Bucky was pretty warm. "If you want," he added, because he didn't want to make Bucky feel like he had to stick around.

"You don't mind?" Bucky asked.

"Why would I? Plenty of room for the both of us." And maybe, if Bucky stayed, he could sleep without dreaming.

Bucky just gave him another one of his long, searching looks. "Okay," he finally said, and settled his head on one of the pillows.

***

They were both racing back up the hill after their coffee run, trying to knock each other off balance, when Bucky came to a dead stop. His stance went from loose and open one second to preternatural stillness the next, and Steve came to an immediate halt a step behind, every sense on alert. He hadn't seen or heard anything, but he trusted Bucky's instincts, always had.

Bucky held up his hand in a closed fist, then signed out _someone's here_ in the modified Morse code they'd used back during the War. Steve barely had time to reflect on the fact that Bucky even _remembered_ it before Bucky took the last turn, his cautious, light footsteps making no sound.

Steve followed, eyeing the tree line for potential snipers, and listening carefully for possible choppers or tanks headed their way. He cursed his lack of readily available weapon – all of Bucky's guns and knives were in the house, too far away to be of much use – but he'd improvise however he needed to. Whoever it was waiting for them, they weren't getting anywhere near Bucky without one helluva fight. Steve would do whatever he had to.

But when he made the turn himself, there wasn't an army of soldiers with weapons waiting for them at the gate. Instead, he saw Tony Stark, in sunglasses and a carelessly worn bespoke suit, standing next to a low–slung convertible that looked like it probably cost more than the GNP of some nations. It also probably had an engine that could rival a jet for speed and torque. Steve had no idea how he'd even gotten it up the winding mountain road, especially with the tires Tony had on it. But that was Tony Stark all over – master of the impossible and the absurd.

"I must say, your security measures are to be commended. I've been up here for almost thirty minutes and I couldn't crack the code on the keypad. Some rolling algorithm, right? Your doing, I take it?" Tony asked, nodding Bucky's way. "No offense, Cap, but coding like this is above your paygrade."

"You look just like your father," Bucky said, his voice level, impossible to decipher. "Sound just like him, too."

Tony frowned. "Was that an insult or...?"

"An observation."

Tony made a quiet, thoughtful sound, then the frown morphed into a smile. Small, but genuine. "Thor said I'd like you," he commented, then pointed at the car's trunk. "Got a package and a note from him for you, by the way. I don't often play errand boy, but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up."

Bucky stared at Tony for another fraught moment, then punched in the code to open the gate. "Come on in. Bring the package. The car stays where it is."

"Fair enough." Tony opened the trunk and pulled out a rectangular wooden case; it was beautifully crafted, with runes and markings along the sides. He handed it to Bucky, then fell into step beside him like they were old friends. Steve followed behind, feeling like he'd missed something.

"I like the whole vibe you two have going here with the place," Tony remarked, glancing around the front yard. "It's very rustic. Very I built this with my bare hands, salt of the earth kinda thing. I can see why it would appeal to you." Then he turned to Steve with a small smirk. "You're awfully quiet. Did the run or whatever it was you two were up to tire you out?"

"What are you doing here, Tony?" Steve asked, proud of his even tone.

Tony shoved his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I was in the area. Figured I'd pop by and drop off Barnes' package and talk to you for a minute. Come take a walk with me."

Steve glanced at Bucky helplessly. He had no idea what to say. "Are you...? Should I...?"

Bucky shrugged. He didn't look quite like himself yet, but he'd at least lost the flat, cold stare and the lethally calculated movements. "Take your time. I'll get started on breakfast. You staying?" he asked Tony.

"No, Pepper and I have brunch reservations at a little Italian place she loves in Santa Rosa. But thank you," Tony added, with another one of those small smiles. "I appreciate the invite."

Bucky lifted an eyebrow Steve's way. " _Chcesz, żebym się go pozbył? Jeżeli ci przeszkadza…_ " 

It took Steve a second to process the words, and then another second to process intent behind them. " _Nie, nie trzeba. Poradzę sobie. Ale dziękuję._ " 

Bucky nodded once, then walked into the house without another glance. Steve rubbed his forehead. All he wanted was a bottle of water and his shower, but both would have to wait. "You, uh, you want the tour?"

"Why, Steve, I thought you'd never ask," Tony said, with a wide, shit–eating grin. No doubt enjoying the fact that he'd managed to fuck with Steve's day. Typical Stark.

Steve led him around the outside of the house – he didn't offer a tour of the interior (and wouldn't have, even if it wasn't still a mess from all the renovations), and thankfully, Tony didn't ask – from the backyard to the vineyard, then the garden and the chicken coop.

Tony motioned towards it. "Is this supposed to be some sort of throwback to your childhoods or…?"

Steve chuckled. "No, we didn't raise chickens growing up." They'd gotten their eggs and fresh milk delivered just like everyone else on their block, not that he thought Tony would care. He tended to tune out anything that smacked of a history lesson.

Tony let out a thoughtful hum. "Okay. So, what's behind the fence?"

"Oh, it's the, uh, the pool." Steve opened the gate and let Tony through so he could have a look. "I think Bucky wants to tear down the fence tomorrow or the next day. I can't keep track, but he has a schedule."

"Sounds boring, but that's why I have the missus to keep me in check. Is that saltwater?" Tony asked, crouching down to get a better look at the pump.

"Uh, yeah. Bucky's got plans to heat the pool somehow, so he can use it year-round. Or, he wants to, if he can find the right solar panels to use." One of the many projects Bucky had planned – he was going to keep himself pretty busy after Steve left. 

Tony made another small noise and stood. "I could probably help with that, if he wanted."

"That's...nice of you," Steve said, drawing out the words. He still couldn't figure out what Tony was doing here. There had to be some ulterior motive. Some favor he wanted, some mission he needed Steve to complete, some bit of intel he didn't want Bucky to know about or overhear.

Steve wondered if he was needed to go back out there early, and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He'd promised Bucky two weeks in exchange for Bucky not following him into the field. He hated the thought of breaking his word, even if it was for a good cause. 

"You know, despite that frown you're sporting – and you should really stop that, I think even you can get wrinkles eventually – you look happy," Tony remarked, no trace of glibness in his tone. "I like it. Rested is a good look for you. Beard's also a nice touch, if a little too lumberjack for my taste."

Tony Stark, sincere and concerned for his well–being. Now Steve had heard everything. 

"I've got a long ways to go before I can even think about happiness," Steve replied, deciding that he'd take Tony at face value for once and match it with an honest answer. "I haven't earned it yet. But maybe...one day...we'll see." 

Once he'd atoned enough, righted enough wrongs, he might have the right to seek out some sort of peace. 

"You've done enough," Tony said.

Steve snorted, unamused. "You sound like Buck."

"Well, you should listen to him." Tony pushed his sunglasses down, his look serious in a way Steve had never seen before. It was...unsettling. "Because Romanov told me all about what you've been up to the last few months on your little solo excursions. And JARVIS and I had a very enlightening conversation after she left."

Steve's spine stiffened. He fought against the urge to stand at parade rest. Tony wasn't his commanding officer and he didn't owe the other man an explanation. "I'm not going to apologize."

"I wasn't asking you to," Tony said, surprising him yet again. "I get wanting to go all wrath of God on the people that hurt you and hurt Barnes. Believe me, I felt the same after my little enforced stay in Afghanistan. But some of the things Natasha mentioned, some of the methods she said you were using? Well, it was a little _Zero Dark Thirty_ , if you follow me. Not exactly your speed."

"You know, everyone keeps saying that, but I wasn't brainwashed or coerced or compromised," Steve said, biting out each word. "No one forced me to do any of the things I did." And he was getting sick and tired of everyone trying to tell him they knew better than he did what he was capable of.

"Fine, poor word choice," Tony conceded. "I know you've got a ruthless streak in you. No one goes through what you've gone through without one. But you've got a real chance now at building something new."

"That's not what this is about. I'm just here because Bucky asked." Steve ran a hand through his hair, winced at all the sweat when he pulled it away. "I haven't forgotten my duty."

"Maybe you should." 

The words sent a chill down Steve's spine. "Are you telling me I can't use your resources anymore?" 

He wouldn't blame Tony if that was the case, but he'd thought he'd have a little more time to prepare. Not having access to JARVIS or weapons or transportation would be a setback, but he'd deal with it. He'd adapt however he had to.

"No, you'd just find some other way if I cut you off, and I'm not sure I like any of those scenarios. But maybe you should quit is what I'm trying to tell you. And by quit, I mean all of it. Going after Hydra, leading the Avengers, everything. It's time to hang up the shield, Cap. Give it to someone else; let someone else save the world or torture bad guys for a change. You've fought and died for your country enough. You've done your part." 

"You want me to quit?" Steve repeated, stunned. He had to be hearing things. He'd never quit anything a day in his goddamn life. He wouldn't even know _how_.

"Look, you have a shot at a home and stability." Tony sounded far too sincere for this to be a joke. "Maybe you need to take a page out of my book and retire while you can. The world's always going to need saving. But _you_ don't always have to be the one to save it. You feel me?"

Steve tried to picture his life without being Captain America and the Avengers and the fight and a mission. What _was_ he without a war? _Who_ was he if he didn't have a battle to wage? 

Tony seemed to sense that he'd scored a hit, because he clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder, and squeezed. "Just think about it, okay. You don't have to decide anything right now."

"Whatever you say." The words felt thick and clumsy on his tongue.

"And if you did decide to live a civilian life, I can think of worse places than doing it here," Tony added. 

"It's Bucky's place, not mine." This was Bucky's sanctuary, his reward for everything he'd suffered, and all he'd endured. 

Tony just shot him a disbelieving look. "You honestly trying to tell me you wouldn't stay here if he asked you to?"

Almost like Tony'd conjured the memory, Steve was back in his cramped apartment in Córdoba, Bucky pleading with him in the most desperate voice he'd ever heard.

 _I bought it for_ us _, Steve. So we'd have a safe place that was ours._

"I...he's earned this, not me," Steve replied, shaking his head. His ears were buzzing. He couldn't think. 

_If you want somewhere to recharge or start over...I'm offering the means and a place to do it..._

No. This life wasn't for him. He didn't _deserve_ any of this.

After a moment of silence, Tony shook his head. "Were you always this stubborn or was this something my dad put into the serum or in the Vita–Rays or what?"

Steve chuckled, rueful, but relaxing for the first time since Tony'd shown up. "Trust me, I was a lot worse before the serum. If anything, I've mellowed out."

Tony shuddered dramatically and walked back out of the gate and into the back yard. "Now that _is_ a terrifying thought. Oh, is that a fig tree? Pep loves figs, you mind if I pick some?"

He'd forgotten how exhausting it was to keep up with Tony's abrupt shifts in conversation. "You know what fig trees look like?"

"Sure, I have a place in Greece," Tony said, with a shrug. "Got fig and olive trees growing right in the front yard, you should go sometime if you're in the mood for a proper vacation. Bring the BFF with you, work on your tan or your terrible flirting skills or whatever."

"I don't really think I'm the lounging on the beach type," Steve said. "Bucky maybe. He's a different person now." 

He'd probably love a beach vacation, come to think on it. A place where he could lounge around barefoot and swim to his heart's content and listen to music and drink wine or ouzo all day... 

He stopped himself before he wandered too far off path.

Tony swiftly picked a handful of figs and wrapped them in a handkerchief. "Maybe he can teach you."

"Yeah, maybe." He'd already taken enough time off. Too many trails had already gone cold.

"Alright, I gotta bail before I'm late. You'll think about what I said, right?"

"Sure." He didn't know what there was to really think about – Hydra was still out there, and he couldn't just abandon his mission. He was a soldier. And he had a war to win, a war that was far more important than any personal wishes he might have.

"Good." Tony put his sunglasses back on, gave Steve a sunny, wide smile, and headed back down the driveway and towards his car. 

Steve let him through the main gate, then walked into the house. He was greeted by the rich scents of melting butter and garlic. Bucky was at the stove, sautéing mushrooms and spinach and peppers. He glanced up when Steve appeared, and smiled, wide and welcoming, like Steve had been gone a lot longer than twenty minutes. "Done with your talk already?"

"Yeah, he just left," Steve said, then gestured at the pan. "Smells good."

"It's for the omelets. You've got time to grab a shower if you wanted."

"Uh, okay. You're...you're not gonna ask why he was here?"

"Should I?" Bucky asked, with a curious tilt of his head. He'd already showered and changed, his hair loose and damp, curling at his nape. Steve never asked why Bucky was letting it grow out, but he figured it was probably as a reminder that he wasn't the same man he used to be. Steve liked it, though. Liked the way the longer hair looked, the way it softened the angular planes of Bucky's face. Liked the messy buns he was always wearing, and how he was constantly brushing locks of hair behind his ear.

He liked that Bucky was openly embracing who he was now, that he'd managed to recreate himself while losing none of the fundamentally good man he'd always been.

And this was exactly why Steve couldn't stay. This was Bucky's new beginning, his chance to be someone else, to move on to better things. Steve wouldn't taint that.

"Yeah, you're right, it doesn't matter," he finally answered, and reached over to steal a mushroom before Bucky could smack him with the wooden spoon. (He'd learned the hard way that Bucky's aim was still uncannily accurate.) "So, uh, what was in the box? From Thor, I mean. If you don't mind me asking."

"A case of Asgardian mead, and two bottles of _hederacea_ – it's a type of Asgardian gin," Bucky told him, and smiled, soft and far away, like he was remembering something precious. "His note said it was a housewarming gift."

Why _had_ Bucky told him yesterday about kissing Thor? He couldn't have thought that Steve would care, could he? Maybe Bucky didn't remember, but they'd known plenty of queer people in their old neighborhood. They'd even sometimes gone to a couple of the after–hours clubs to hear a new up–and–coming band, or because someone they knew was tending bar and could cut them a deal on cheap drinks. Neither of them were strangers to seeing fellas kissing on fellas. So, if being with a man was something Bucky wanted now, well, Steve would support him.

And Steve could trust Thor, if that was a relationship Bucky was interested in pursuing. Steve knew all about Thor and Jane's arrangement and, as long as everyone was honest and open with each other, there was no reason why it shouldn't work. It was clear Bucky had enjoyed their time together, and Thor had taken a lot of time out of his schedule to spend with Bucky, so maybe he felt the same way. They could be good for each other.

But, when Steve tried to picture Thor and Bucky together – Thor's hands on Bucky's neck, Bucky's hands on Thor's hips, bodies brushing together as their mouths met in kiss after kiss – he just felt an uncomfortable pang in his chest.

"Oh, well, uh, that was nice of him," he said. The words sounded like they were coming from somewhere far away. "I'm gonna...hop in the shower."

"Take your time," Bucky replied, and returned his attention to the stove. "You good with starting the paint job after we eat?"

"Uh, yeah." Steve nodded, but kept his gaze on the sizzling butter in the frying pan instead of Bucky's face. "Sounds great."

He couldn't escape the kitchen fast enough.

***

Bucky still had the same eye for color he always did, alright. 

Steve wiped a hand across the sweat beading on his forehead, and took a moment to admire the way the new paint on the walls opened up the living/dining room even further. The soft off–white ( _Swiss Coffee_ , according to the paint cans) perfectly caught the sunlight coming in from the large windows, and the penny–brown border running at the top was a nice contrast. Made the entire space pop in a way that made it seem even more warm and welcoming.

"Looks good," Bucky commented, when he wandered into the room. His clothes were spattered with droplets of white and brown from where he'd been painting the hallway. Bare feet peeked from under his scuffed jeans, and he had a streak of paint smudging one cheek. Steve wondered why either of them had bothered to shower this morning.

He turned back to the wall, and dipped his roller in the bucket. "Yeah, it's gonna look really great once it dries and we get the new furniture in here."

He felt a small swell of pride. Bucky was really turning the place into a home he could be proud of. It was a shame that none of the rest of his family was alive to see it. 

"I was thinking we could set up a small studio in the corner there by the front door," Bucky said, nodding at the space in question. "Lotta natural light, y'know, seems like a good place for one. What do you think?"

"If it makes you happy, go for it," Steve replied, with a shrug. "Add it to your list, and maybe we can squeeze it in before I leave."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "What, I can't ask your opinion now?"

"Yeah, you're...you're right. Sorry." Steve accepted the reprimand with a wince. "It's a great spot for a studio." It was exactly where he would have put one, if this was his house, in fact. "I didn't know you were thinking about picking up the brush again."

"I'm not. It's for you," Bucky said, and clapped him on the back. "I'm headed to the pool for a few laps to cool down before I get started on the second coat. You good with grilled steak for dinner?"

It was _what_?

"Wait, you can't just – Buck. Stop." He twisted to snag Bucky's arm, the roller in his other hand forgotten. "You're doing what?"

Bucky looked down at his feet for a moment, then sighed long and deep, and lifted his chin to look Steve in the eyes. "Look, if you don't want a studio, I get it. Just tell me, okay –"

"That's not –" He could barely think through the fog that had taken over his brain. "Why are you – why _would_ you do something like that? For me?"

" _Jesus_ , you're the most stupid, pig–headed... How many different ways do I need to make it clear to you that this is _your_ home, too? Why else do you think I wanted you around for all the renovations?" Bucky blew out a short breath, visibly reining in his temper. "No matter what you do after you leave here, you've got someplace to come back to that's yours. You really thought you wouldn't?"

"No, I – I don't know what I thought, okay." 

_I bought it for us....I'm offering the means and a place to do it..._

"Well, this is and you do," Bucky said. "So stop, fuck, I dunno, acting like you're a goddamn guest." Then he shifted and pulled out of Steve's grip. "I don't want to fight about this, okay."

"I don't either." He wasn't sure what he wanted, but a fight definitely wasn't it. 

"Good. Because it'd be a stupid fucking thing to fight about. You live here, end of story." Bucky nodded once, decisively. "So...I'll be at the pool if you, uh, wanted to join me."

"Yeah, I'll...I gotta finish the wall..." 

"Okay. Take your time."

Steve watched helplessly as Bucky walked out of the room. He glanced down. Paint was dripping onto the drop cloth and on his shoes. _This is your home, too._

What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Yeah, sure, he and Bucky used to talk in the old days about settling down near each other, being neighbors, raising their kids together. But those days – those dreams – had died a long time ago. This was different. This was Bucky building a sanctuary – a safe haven for himself, and offering to share it with Steve. Still offering himself as a shield between Steve and the world, even though Steve was supposed to be _Bucky's_ shield these days. 

No matter what Bucky said, he didn't belong here. How could he, with all of his failures and his unfinished business with Hydra standing in his way? He was doing the right thing. He needed to remember that.

His thoughts weren't any clearer by the time he finished the wall, and changed into his swim trunks and strolled out to the pool. It was a gorgeous day out, sunny and unusually warm. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by green – the rolling hills, the trees, the grass beneath his feet. Every day he was here, he appreciated the peace and quiet. With being able to pick fresh tomatoes off the vine for dinner and have fresh eggs from the coop, with the creaking of the house in the middle of the night as it shifted, and the view of the mountains everywhere he turned. But he couldn't allow himself to get too settled into the easy days and easy nights.

He was only here for the next week.

Still, he'd promised Bucky he wouldn't worry about anything beyond their time together, and it was too beautiful a day to think about what was waiting for him once he left. About what he could or couldn't have.

The blue of the pool sparkled like rare jewels in the sunlight. Bucky was swimming laps, easily cutting through the water with strong, even strokes. He'd always been a great athlete – everyone wanted him for pick–up games, he was a champion boxer, and could swim like a fish – and it was clear his years with Hydra had only enhanced those gifts. It was hard not to admire, even if Steve hated the reason for it.

After a few more turns, Bucky swam to the ladder, and hauled himself up. His hair was plastered to his skull, teased at his neck, and water droplets sluiced along the chiseled cut of his chest, down washboard abs, trickled over muscled thighs. The scarring around his shoulder didn't seem quite so red or pronounced anymore – or maybe Steve was just used to it – and his skin glowed with health.

Looking at him was like seeing a Renaissance sculpture come to life.

He watched, silent and itching to put his hands on Bucky's skin to make sure there was warm flesh there as opposed to cool marble, as Bucky grabbed a towel and started drying himself off with quick, economical movements. 

Then Bucky smiled at him, lips parting to show white teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, you made it."

Steve shivered involuntarily. His skin felt prickly; he itched all over. "Uh, yeah."

"You okay?" Bucky asked, then his gaze narrowed slightly. "You're not still – look, if it's about the studio –"

"No, it's – I'm fine. I love the...it's a good idea. It's...everything's fine." 

When had Bucky's eyes gotten so blue, his lips so full and red? When had Bucky gotten _beautiful_? Sure, yeah, he'd always been good–looking, with girls flocking to his side whenever they'd gone out on the town. Steve had always known Bucky was handsome in that abstract sort of way, but it wasn't something he'd ever really paid too much attention to. 

But this...this was something new. Something he didn't have a name for.

Strong fingers squeezed at his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. Bucky was standing right in front of him, so close Steve could see the ring of grey around his irises, the dip in his chin under the days-old stubble. "You sure you're not mad?" Bucky asked, concern turning the corners of his mouth down.

Steve wondered if his lips would feel as soft as they looked.

He jerked back a step, stumbled on the ledge and toppled right over into the deep end of the pool. Gasped in shock as the cold surrounded him, and he shot to the surface, choking, as he swallowed a lungful of water.

"Jesus, are you okay?" Bucky was crouching at the edge, his metal hand outstretched, his look concerned.

"Yeah." Steve shook his head, blinked droplets out of his eyes to clear his vision. He resolutely ignored Bucky's hand. "I'm...yeah, I'm fine. Just, uh, slipped."

Bucky kept his hand out for another moment, then pulled it back, seemingly satisfied. Then another wide grin appeared, showing off the laugh lines around his eyes and lips. It made him look like the mischievous kid he'd once been. "I gotta say, that was probably the most ungraceful dive I've ever seen. You always been this clumsy?"

Steve snorted, and flipped Bucky off. Now that the shock of the water was wearing off, he was starting to warm up a little bit. "Well, you're the one who taught me to swim."

"Clearly, I was a bad teacher," Bucky replied, with a sunny smirk. Just looking at him made Steve's chest ache – an echo of his asthmatic attacks, with too tight lungs and a closed throat.

It took him a few endless moments to catch his breath. Then he floated to the opposite end of the pool. As far from Bucky, and whatever the hell was happening to him, as he could get. "I'm, uh, just. Gonna do my laps. Since I'm here, I mean."

"Yeah, sure, buddy, whatever you say." Bucky laughed. "Since you're _there_ and all." 

Then he rose gracefully to his feet, powerful muscles rolling and flexing. Once again, Steve's hands itched. He wanted to map the scars on Bucky's shoulders with his touch, wanted to press as close as they'd been this morning and find out if Bucky's skin was as warm as it looked. He wanted…

He wanted…. 

He wanted _Bucky_.

Steve blinked, stunned into total stillness as Bucky strolled past him and out of the gate.

***

James should have waited to bring up the studio. 

Steve had been acting odd, ever since James had brought it up. Not quite looking James in the eye, and keeping his distance physically, even though they'd woken up just that morning curled together in Steve's bed. And the distance had only gotten worse since Steve had come back from his swim. He'd been subdued the rest of the afternoon, and quiet all during dinner. Hadn't said a word when James had brought out one of the bottles of _hederacea_ for them to share. Just took the tumbler James had poured for him with a small smile and downed it in one large gulp before silently motioning for a refill and draining that one just as quickly.

Even now, with the chess board between them, Steve was playing without engaging in their usual banter. Just kept glancing up at James every couple of minutes with a thoughtful look on face, like he was trying to figure something out, then returning his gaze to the board.

They were sitting on the bench at the fire pit on the back deck, and the soft light from the flames reminded James of nights when they were on patrol during the War. Passing around one of Frenchy's bottles of wine, Dum Dum regaling them with another of his endless supply of stories about his boisterous family. Monty chiming in with a well–timed zinger, Gabe reading them all his letters from his meemaw, Steve and James taking turns talking about all the trouble they'd gotten into as kids, completing each other sentences more often than not.

Right now, James would give just about anything for any one of the Howlies to appear beside them and diffuse the tension with a joke or a tale. It felt like that first night back in Texas all over again – neither of them sure of their place or what they were or weren't allowed to say to each other.

Instead, he watched as Steve poured himself another generous amount of _hederacea_ , and drained it just as quickly, all the while with a small frown on his face and furrowed brows. Still clearly deep in thought. James wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but stilled his tongue. If Steve wanted to talk about it, he would. And trying to force the issue would only make him dig in his heels even more than usual.

So James just nursed his own glass, tried to appreciate all of the nuances of the drink. He could pick out something that tasted of blackberries (or whatever the Asgardian equivalent was) and the juniper and coriander undertones that were reminiscent of the gin he and Thor had shared back in Malibu. It wasn't quite the same, but he could learn to like it.

"Hey, do you remember –" Steve stopped, glanced up with a small frown. It was the first thing he'd said in almost two hours. "Never mind, it's not –"

"No, go on." James fought the urge to lean in and beg Steve to keep talking. "I want to hear it."

"Well, it's just. Sitting here like this, it...reminds me of the first time we ever got drunk together."

"When was that?" James asked, curious.

"I was...we were thirteen. Or, I was thirteen and you were fourteen," Steve said, settling back against the bench. He'd pulled on a soft–looking hoodie, and the jeans he was wearing showed off those mile long legs. James had been casting surreptitious glances the entire night.

"Anyway," Steve continued, "you'd conned Timmy O'Donnell – an older kid, went to our church – out of half a bottle of some hooch he'd gotten from his uncle who had a still in the basement of his building, I think. I was never a hundred percent sure of the story. But, the long and short of it was, you and me snuck out after bedtime and went up to the roof of our building so we could, in your words, complete one of the rituals of manhood together." 

James laughed and shook his head. "I _really_ said that?"

Steve put his left hand over his heart. He seemed marginally more relaxed. "Swear on a stack of Bibles those were your exact words."

"I can't believe I was able to talk you into anything saying shit that ridiculous," James replied, his breath catching, as it so often did now, at how beautiful Steve was. Deep blue eyes shining in the glow of the fire, smiling that little smile James liked so much. Even with the strange tension enveloping them all evening, James wouldn't trade where he was right now with anyone in the world. 

So, naturally, the next words out of his mouth were, "I thought you were still mad at me for the studio."

"What?" Steve frowned. "No, that's...no, I told you. That's fine."

"So, why – you've been so quiet all night." Fuck, what was wrong with him? Steve was talking to him again, wasn't that enough?

"Oh." Steve swallowed, then gave out an embarrassed, mirthless laugh. "That's – I was just. I've just had some things I've been trying to work through. That's all."

"Mission related?" James asked, afraid of the answer. Maybe he _should_ have asked why Stark had dropped by. 

"What? No, no, nothing like –" Steve abruptly paused, then stared at James for a handful of moments that stretched uncomfortably long.

"Steve?" He hated the hesitant tone, but he had no idea what was going through Steve's head, no idea if Steve was getting ready to tell him that he was leaving, or what he'd done wrong, and it –

– the next thing he knew, Steve's lips were on his. 

The kiss – more an exchange of breaths than anything else – was over in an instant. But James could feel the ground beneath him tilt, gravity shifting and rearranging itself entirely in the span of a heartbeat. Every synapse shorted out as white noise roared in his ears.

 _Steve_ had just kissed him. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chcesz, żebym się go pozbył? Jeżeli ci przeszkadza…_ \- Do you need me to remove him? If he's bothering you...
> 
>  _Nie, nie trzeba. Poradzę sobie. Ale dziękuję._ \- No, it's fine. I can handle it. Thank you, though.
> 
> Thanks to Keire_ke for the Polish translations.


	15. (Part XV – "Even When I Had Nothing...")

Fuck. _Fuck._

Steve froze in place, too terrified to move, too scared to look Bucky in the eyes. What did he think he was he _doing_? He'd just _kissed_ Bucky. His best friend. His brother in all but blood. 

"Buck, I –" His voice was reed thin. He couldn't remember a time when he'd ever been this nervous. Not his first kiss when he was a gangly fourteen, not the first time he'd fumblingly made love to a woman, not even the first time he tried to talk to Peggy, three thousand miles and a lifetime ago. "Please tell me I didn't just fu–"

The rest of his plea was cut off as Bucky's lips met his, this kiss just as light as the first. 

"It's okay, Steve," Bucky told him. Still so close Steve could feel every one of Bucky's breaths against his cheek. "We're okay." 

"I know we've never –" He licked parched lips, tried to slow his still erratic heartbeat. Tried for something that resembled calm and collected. Everything inside him felt amplified. "I didn't – this isn't – I wanted –"

Fuck, why couldn't he _speak_?

"It's _okay_." Bucky rested his flesh hand against Steve's nape, the touch an anchor and a guide. Just as familiar as it had always been, only infused with something different now, something deeper. "Is this – is this something you want?"

"I – I'm not – is it something _you_ want?" Steve asked, pulling back so he could see Bucky's face. The blue-grey of his eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the lush fullness of his lips. He wanted – he _needed_ – Bucky to be honest with him. 

Bucky's shoulders lifted, but his gaze dropped briefly to Steve's lips. The look burned through Steve, a wildfire he never wanted to extinguish. "Kiss me again, and I'll let you know."

An invitation wrapped in a dare. Something Steve had never been able to resist. 

Slowly, slowly, he brought their mouths back together. Bucky's lips were soft, but dry, a little chapped. Scratchy where bristle met bristle. He tasted a little like the _hederacea_ they'd been drinking, but far more potent than anything even the Asgardians could create. 

Steve kept his eyes open, just in case, but Bucky just let out a soft moan and relaxed against him for a few heartbeats. Then it was Steve's turn to moan as Bucky changed the angle to fit their mouths more comfortably together, rubbed his lips across Steve's like he was trying to memorize them by feel. 

Steve parted his on instinct, and Bucky was right there, tongue flicking out to briefly lick against his own. Then Steve felt Bucky's hands in his hair, and another shudder went through him. He all but melted into the next kiss, and then the next one after that.

Kissing Bucky was unlike anything Steve had ever experienced. And not just because there was a hard, muscled body under his hands instead of soft curves, and not just because his beard scratched against Bucky's stubble, and not even because Bucky's lips weren't nearly as lush as a woman's. But because everything felt new. Like they were both discovering something together.

" _Much_ more like it," Bucky commented when they parted. His lips were full and red and his smile was flirtatious and sly. A smile Steve would know anywhere, even though it had never been directed his way until now. 

He was beautiful. Breathtakingly so. The most beautiful sight Steve had seen, since a red dress in a smoke-filled bar in 1943.

"Yeah, y'think?" Steve asked, and huffed out a small laugh. Bucky hadn't punched him. Bucky'd kissed him _back_. Bucky was still leaning against him, as close as he could with the chess board still between them on the bench.

"Yeah, I do." Then Bucky made a seesaw motion with his hand, and the smile morphed into a playful smirk that Steve knew from long experience spelled trouble. "But I still think we could do better."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" A giddy sense of relief surged in his veins. They could still joke with each other, give each other shit. Nothing was different. (Except _everything_ was different.)

"Yeah, I do." Then Bucky raised his eyebrow. "So, how about it?"

Steve was only too happy to lean back in. Gave them both a moment to savor the anticipation, to fully soak in the moment. This was new and solely belonging to the men they were _now_. Something they'd never done, or even thought of doing, before. But Steve couldn't deny how much he wanted it. How much he wanted to explore this newfound attraction and see where it led.

Bucky made a soft, contented noise in the back of his throat when Steve finally closed the distance between them, his fingers stroking along Steve's nape. He still tasted faintly of berries, but now there was a sharper taste underneath, something that was all Bucky. Steve tightened his hold on Bucky's hair, fingers slipping over silky strands, and opened his mouth for the bold slide of Bucky's tongue.

They kissed over and over, trying different angles, slotting their mouths together in different ways, every one new and distinct, but still undeniably _them_. Still working together seamlessly, the way they always had. Bucky's fingers on his neck soothed and excited in equal measure, the fire there, but banked for the moment. 

Steve's lips and brain were buzzing when they both came up for air again. Bucky's lips were bruised-looking and slick, his gaze hooded, long lashes fluttering as he let out another sigh. Steve wanted to pull him back in, wanted to start all over again, wanted to keep that look on Bucky's face as long as he could, wanted – 

_Wanted_.

He rubbed a finger over Bucky's chin, then rested it over the indent, hidden under the stubble. "You know, you used to have the smoothest face in all of Brooklyn."

"Well, I hate shaving now, so I guess that's another new thing you'll have to get used to," Bucky said, eyes dancing with mirth, and something Steve couldn't quite identify, but seeing it made his heart flutter all the same. "That okay?"

"Sure. I think it suits you now." He dragged his thumb across Bucky's lower lip, noting the contrast. Rough cheeks and dry lips. "It's a lot sexier than mine," he said, gesturing to his own face.

Bucky studied him for a long time – so long, Steve started to wonder if he'd fucked up somewhere, said something wrong. He wanted to ask Bucky what he was hoping to find. Wanted to ask just what it was he saw when he looked at Steve – if he could see inside Steve's fractured soul to the dark core that pulsed within him. If he could look past the smoldering remains of the good man he used to be and still find anything worth salvaging in the wreckage.

Bucky's lips tilted up in a gentle, almost sad, smile. "I wouldn't go that far. I could...get used to it," he said. "If it's something you want."

What he wanted didn't matter. The beard was a good camouflage when he was out in the field, nothing more.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, dropping his hand.

"You know you can," Bucky replied, and placed another small, chaste kiss to Steve's lips before straightening. The pieces on the board sitting between them were in a jumbled heap, but Steve wasn't interested in the match anymore.

"When did you...when did you know?" God, he really did feel like he was in the back of that cab with Peggy all over again, palms sweating, knees shaking, unable to string together a sentence to save his life. "That you wanted...this. I mean, _us_. I mean, _kissing_."

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle. "Honestly?" He shook his head, and reached across the board to take one of Steve's hands in his own. "I figured it out yesterday."

" _Yesterday_?" Jesus, they were a pair, alright. No wonder Bucky'd been staring at him so odd all day.

"Yeah, I know, it's ridic–"

"I figured it out about five hours ago," Steve said, with his own abashed smile. "When we were at the pool."

"No shit? Wait, is that why you've been so –" Bucky made a vague motion with his free hand "– all night?"

"Quiet and plowing through Thor's booze like it was cheap vodka? Yeah, that's –" 

He stopped, let out a short breath. Bucky was with him. Holding his hand and looking at him like he always did these days. Everything about _him_ was familiar, etched under Steve's skin in a series of interlocking tattoos that would never wither or fade. Everything about this _moment_ felt overwhelming and new, and nothing he could have prepared for, not if he lived another hundred years.

"Buck, I have no idea what I'm doing right now."

The responding laugh did nothing to quell his nerves. "Well, if you're looking to _me_ for answers, you'll be waiting awhile. I haven't the faintest fucking clue what comes next."

"But…" Steve frowned. "You said...I thought you and Thor –?"

"We kissed, but that's all we did," Bucky said. "And yeah, I mean, I liked it, but it wasn't – he's not you."

"Oh." A warm glow spread from Steve's chest out to his fingertips and toes. This was _theirs_ , whatever it was. "That's...okay, then." 

"Okay, then?" Bucky shook his head, and gave him an indulgent, exasperated look before squeezing his fingers. "That's all you have to say for yourself right now?"

"Maybe?" Steve swallowed, tried to quell the butterflies currently taking up residence throughout his body. This was far too important to fuck up by rushing into anything. If they were – if this was something they were truly going to explore, then they needed – 

He blinked in surprise as Bucky stood up and turned to face him. Then a heavy weight settled across his lap, thighs bracketing his own, arms wrapped loose around his neck. His own hands came to rest on Bucky's hips as Bucky smiled down at him. 

"Stop thinking so fucking much," Bucky said, with a smile Steve had _never_ seen. But, before Steve could even try to formulate a reply, Bucky's mouth – searingly hot and clever as sin – was on his.

He jerked, his entire body short-circuiting as he surged up into the kiss, his hands sliding under Bucky's shirt to map out firm skin. The entire tenor of the moment changed – the kisses were no longer experimental, no longer tentative. Everything was frenzied now, messy and desperate, from the slick heat of Bucky's tongue against his own, to the way Bucky was rubbing against him, unmistakably hard.

He tore his mouth away with a strangled gasp as Bucky started to fumble between them, tugging at the zipper of Steve's jeans. "Buck, what –?"

The look Bucky gave him was hot enough to melt steel. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"No." The word felt like someone had punched it out of him. "I don't want to stop."

He could give them both this. He could give Bucky this. Hadn't Bucky sacrificed and bled enough that he was entitled to every bit of pleasure he could get out of this world? 

He nudged Bucky's chin up, traced a path from Bucky's jaw to his throat, tasted sweat and the faintest hint of the soap they both used, and felt Bucky's moan vibrate through him like _he_ was the one being touched. His own hands, sure and confident now, went to the buttons of Bucky's jeans, flipped them one by one until he could slide his hand down along crisp hairs and under the elastic band of Bucky's briefs to wrap it around the hot, hard length of Bucky's cock. He may not have the slightest clue what he was doing, but it was alright. He and Bucky would figure it out together, the way they'd always done.

"Steve…" Bucky grasped his shoulders, metal and flesh digging in hard enough to hurt, hard enough Steve thought he might actually bruise. The thought of it – Bucky marking him, a tangible reminder that this was real – sent a dark thrill through him.

"Let me," he murmured, and started stroking, nice and even, using Bucky's own precome as lube. Next time – if there was one (and he really wanted there to be one) – he'd be better prepared. 

"Fuck, you're –" Bucky shivered, then ducked his head, the kiss frantic, biting and raw. He rocked up into Steve's fist, moans spilling out of his mouth and into Steve's. Steve savored every one, wanted to freeze time right at this moment – Bucky here with him, trusting Steve with his pleasure.

He would never be worthy of it, but it wouldn't stop him from trying.

Bucky was proportionate with Steve, maybe a little bigger around, but Steve was more than okay with that. And he seemed to be just as sensitive as Steve was, judging from the way his fingers spasmed every time Steve tightened his hold. 

"This good?" he asked, dragging his thumb over the head, calluses catching on smooth skin.

"Yeah, it's –" Bucky wrapped his flesh hand around Steve's, the touch burning, and stroked up. "Like this," he said, his voice a wreck, and slid his lips over Steve's again as he started to roll his hips.

Steve took the hint, suckled on Bucky's tongue, and let Bucky guide him on what he liked best. Every stroke was rough, short, and when Steve added a small twist at the end of it, Bucky just moaned louder. It was a little weird, doing this to another man, but Steve thought he could get used to it. Maybe next time, he could lay Bucky out, really go slow and figure out every place Bucky liked to be touched. 

Then Bucky let out a small, pained whimper, and went perfectly still. A second later, he pulsed, come spilling over Steve's fist and across the bottom of Bucky's shirt. Steve kissed him through the shudders, savored the satisfaction of a job well done as he milked Bucky's cock until only a few stray droplets remained.

" _Fuck_ ," Bucky breathed, and pressed their foreheads together. His skin was fever-hot.

"Yeah?" Steve asked, with a hopeful smile. He'd been the one to do this for Bucky. _He_ was the one Bucky'd wanted, out of all of the choices he had open to him now. 

"Oh yeah," Bucky repeated, and their lips met again, languorous and sweet.

They were both smiling when Bucky lifted his head. His hair had come out of its holder, and was messily framing his face. His cheeks were splotched, and his eyes still hazy, but all Steve could think was he'd never seen anything more perfect in his life. "I did okay?" he asked, hesitant.

"Any better and I might've actually had a heart attack," Bucky replied, with another quick kiss. Then he frowned. "But you didn't – _shit_ , Steve, I didn't –"

"It's fine. I'm good," Steve assured him, as he started to look around for something to clean off his hand. "I got off more on watching you than anything else." This was about Bucky's pleasure, making him feel good. Steve wasn't selfish enough to ask for anything more for himself.

"Next time we'll switch it up," Bucky said, and whipped off his t-shirt, handing it to Steve. "Here, use this."

Steve eyed it warily. "Buck –"

"What, it's already got my spunk all over it, what's it gonna hurt." Bucky thrust it out again, his look obstinate. A look Steve had seen variations of his entire life. "C'mon, take it."

"Fine," Steve grumbled, and wiped at the mess as best he could. Then he set the shirt aside and leaned back against the bench. Took a minute to truly study Bucky in the glow of the fire and the silver light of the moon shining down on them. From the slope of his jaw to the scars on his shoulder, the solid breadth of his chest and the muscles of his abdomen contracting with every inhale. 

James Buchanan Barnes. His oldest, best, most cherished friend. His soulmate, in every way that mattered. The fact that they had this extra layer binding them together was almost incidental. 

Bucky lifted an eyebrow and gave him a slightly bemused look. "What're you thinking about? You've got this...I dunno. You okay? Are _we_ okay?"

They were so much better than okay.

"Melissa, you know, the, uh, cashier up –" Steve made a vague motion with his hand.

"Yeah, at the grocery store," Bucky said, and cocked his head. "What about her?"

"The other morning, she thought…" Steve let out a small laugh; some slip of a girl in a sleepy small town had managed to see what both the greatest assassin and the greatest soldier in modern history had missed. "She thought we were a couple. A romantic couple," he added, with a rueful shrug.

"Okay." Confusion was replaced by amusement. "You saying you just gave me a handjob to prove her right or…?"

"What, no, of course –" Then he caught the self-satisfied smirk Bucky was giving him, and groaned. "You fucking asshole."

Bucky's grin just widened. "Still so easy to wind up," he commented, and pulled Steve in for a quick, open-mouthed kiss. "Sorry, you were saying…?"

_God_ , he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and real and the most resilient, strongest person Steve had ever known. There was nothing – _nothing_ – Steve wouldn't do to protect this. No one he wouldn't kill or sacrifice, if it meant keeping Bucky safe. 

"Nothing, it's...it's not important," he said, and brushed the backs of his fingers along Bucky's jaw. "You tired?"

"Yeah, a little," Bucky admitted. "You wanna maybe try falling asleep together tonight? It...you seem to have an easier time of it when I'm there."

Bucky'd given him far too much already today; it was selfish to ask for more. But, fuck, he was so tired of either not sleeping, or waking up with the taste of blood on his teeth and bile in his throat. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure."

"Good." Bucky ducked in for another kiss, then stood and gestured at himself. "I should probably get cleaned up. Meet you in my room?"

"Whatever you want."

***

Thirty minutes later, Steve paused just outside Bucky's bedroom door, hand poised to knock. He should head back to his own room. He should be stronger than this. He was supposed to be the one offering Bucky support now, not the other way around. Although Bucky _had_ been the one to ask, so maybe he needed it too. Maybe he needed that same assurance in the middle of the night, that he wasn't alone, that the dreams weren't real.

He was still debating with himself when he heard Bucky, muffled, but clear enough: "Just come in already."

Right. Fellow super soldier and the world's greatest assassin. He'd probably heard Steve leave his room.

He opened the door, sheepish, and poked his head in. "Sorry, I just...is this –?"

Bucky, shirtless and relaxed against the pillows, just lowered his tablet and smiled at him. Sweet and artlessly charming and welcoming. For one spun-out moment, Steve was at a cramped kitchen table in Brooklyn, a knobby knee bumping against his, the high, bright chatter of the girls fading in and out, the scents of coffee and bacon hanging in the air. 

Then Bucky patted the space next to him on the bed, and the image faded. "I thought you were gonna stay out there forever," he said. "Get in already."

Steve gratefully slid under the blankets, sighed in relief when Bucky just tugged him into his arms. He rested his head against Bucky's shoulder, breathed in the clean scent of soap. "I thought about it," he confessed. "Not coming in, I mean."

"Look, I know this – thing, or whatever – is new for the both of us, but you don't have to ask. You never, ever have to ask," Bucky told him, and bent his head enough to press a kiss to Steve's forehead. Light, comforting. "My door's always open for you, no matter what you need." 

Steve nodded, but didn't trust himself to reply. Maybe this _was_ selfish, but maybe that was okay. He could take this. Something private, just for Steve Rogers, not anyone else.

After he'd gotten himself settled, he looked around the room. He hadn't really been in here, not since the day Bucky had given him the grand tour. The bed was a California King, easily big enough for an army, and the frame itself was oak, sanded and smoothed until the wood gleamed. The dresser on the opposite wall matched it, and scattered on the wall above it were a few framed drawings.

Even without his enhanced eyesight, he would have recognized his own work anywhere. "Are those...?" he trailed off, stunned.

"Yeah. The one you drew of my mother in Texas, and that one's that mosque in Konya you did for me when I was traveling with Thor, and that one's the back deck drawing you did the other day," Bucky confirmed. 

"But those were...they were quick sketches," Steve protested, humbled all over again at the idea that the first and last thing Bucky saw every single day was Steve's art. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve _any_ of this. "I can do so much better."

"I don't want better, I want honest," Bucky said, and rubbed his lips across Steve's. Soft and achingly sweet. "I've been thinking...we should get a dog. What do you think?"

"Uh, well," Steve replied, nonplussed at the abrupt change in topic. "You always wanted one growing up."

"What about you?" Bucky scooted down, settled his head against the pillows and rested a cheek to Steve's hair. Snuggled in so close it was hard for even Steve to tell where he ended and Bucky began. 

"Sure," he answered quietly. "I love dogs." He'd never been able to have one as a kid – too many allergies. But now, well, it was a different story.

"Okay then, we'll get a dog," Bucky said, slurring the words around a yawn, and nuzzling a kiss to Steve's hair. "Night, Stevie..."

"Night, Buck," Steve replied softly. He stared at the sketches for a long time, long enough that the lines all started to blur together.

***

James woke up to the scritching of a pencil on paper.

For just a second, the sound conjured up too many memories to name. He was nine years old again, fourteen, twenty-two – in his childhood bedroom, or the metal steps of a fire escape of their building, or in a classroom that reeked of turpentine. He was Bucky Barnes of Brooklyn, New York, and he knew two things in life that were the bedrock of everything he was, everything he wanted to become: He had the best fucking family in the entire city, maybe the state. And he was lucky enough to count Steve Rogers as his best friend.

"You're _drawing_ ," he murmured, awed, and cracked open sleep-crusted eyelids.

Steve was sitting up next to him, his sketch pad propped against his leg, eyes glued to the page and his fingers already smudged black. His hair was a tousled mess and burnished a dark gold by the sun shining in from the windows, chest bare, and shoulders completely relaxed. An artist, completely in his element, his hands finally being used for their intended purpose.

_He's beautiful. Everything about him is fucking beautiful._

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Steve said, with a soft, apologetic smile.

"No, it's…" James tried to untangle himself from the sheets enough to sit up. Rubbed at the grit in his eyes. "You haven't drawn – I haven't seen you draw anything since you got here." 

"Haven't drawn anything at all since…" Steve pursed his lips, suddenly much too far away for a minute. "Well, it's been awhile."

"So, what got your muse working again?" James asked, trying to lighten the mood. They had the rest of their lives together to help each other through the dark thoughts and the dark days. For right now, James just wanted to focus on the two of them, and building on the new beginning they'd started last night.

Their lives were chock full of choices now. Choices they'd make together. James couldn't wait to get started.

"I thought I'd give you something nicer to look at on your wall," Steve said, and tipped the pad to show James what he was working on. "I, uh, had to use your phone to take a selfie as a reference. I didn't call or text anyone, I promise."

"I believe yo… _oh_." James' breath caught. With light fingers, he traced over the lines – himself, sprawled on his stomach, pillow curled under him, the sheet low across his hips, and Steve tucked in beside him, arm thrown across his back, a small smile as he held James tight. They looked… _happy_. At peace.

Something bright and buoyant unfurled inside of James, started to spread tentative wings. 

"It's...Steve, it's...wow. It's _gorgeous_ ," he whispered.

Steve's laugh was soft. "Yeah, I guess. At least, you are."

James carded a hand through Steve's hair and drew him in for a gentle kiss. They both tasted a little sleep-sour, but that was alright, too. James wasn't interested in perfect. "Don't ever doubt how amazing you are, alright. How amazing you've always been."

He'd always thought most of the girls in their neighborhood were crazy, not seeing what a catch Steve was, with his fierce heart and his unshakable desire to do the right thing. And now, with this new element between them, all James wanted to do for the rest of his life was find new ways to show Steve just how singular and magnificent he was, inside and out.

Steve smiled, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. "Thanks, Buck."

In that moment, James _felt_ like Bucky. Like he might be closer than ever to deserving that name. 

"So." He cleared his throat, returned his gaze to the sketch pad. "I guess we should talk about what we're doing today."

Steve started toying with the pages, flipping through them one by one. "Well, what's on your list?"

"Uh, well, we've still got the loft and – hold on." He tapped at the drawing on the next page – a close-up of his face, his hair pulled back the way he usually wore it these days, a small half-smile that crinkled the corners of his mouth – and gave Steve a sidelong glance. "I hope you're not expecting me to put that one up on the wall," he said, with a light laugh. "I might be relearning to like myself, but even I've got a limit."

"Oh, that's for me," Steve replied, with an embarrassed smile. "To take with me when I go. Drawing of my best guy to make the nights not so lonely or something. Like a favor the knights used to take into battle."

_When I go._

All of the warmth and color and light bled out of the room. James shivered, curling in a little closer around himself. Steve was still planning on leaving. Still planning on going back out on the hunt for Hydra. 

Last night had meant nothing.

" _When_ you go?" God, he hated the meek tone, the hurt he couldn't mask in time.

"Yeah." Steve set down the pad on the bedside table, and turned a little so he and James were facing each other. His eyes were so blue and solemn. "You know I can't stay."

"No, I _don't_ know that," he replied, his tone careful, even, cool. 

"This...I mean, you – _us_ ," Steve said, resting his hand over the scars on James' shoulder. James had to fight to keep from flinging him off. "Whatever this is, I don't want to lose it. I _can't_ lose you again."

He could hear the servos in his arm whirring as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "I can take care of myself." 

Hadn't he proved that enough? Hadn't he spent the last nine months – since the day on the helicarriers when Steve had rescued him and he'd rescued Steve in kind – _proving_ that he was capable of making his own choices now, and fighting his own battles?

"I know that, I just – fuck, I'm explaining this all wrong." Steve dropped his hand and sighed. Weary, resigned. "I _have_ to go back out there. I need to ato–"

"I don't want to hear anymore." He held himself still, dropped his gaze to the sheet lying on his lap. His flesh hand was digging deep grooves into his palm, deep enough he could feel the blood welling under the skin, but the pain of it was muted, distant. 

He couldn't – he _wouldn't_ – sit here and listen to another one of Steve's endless supply of excuses. The endless litany of lies he'd fed to himself, a toxic cocktail of recrimination and guilt and grief still poisoning his mind. How could Steve not _see_ that he'd done more than enough, had already bled and sacrificed enough of himself for the greater good or revenge or retribution? 

"You're mad. You get wrinkles right between your eyebrows when you're pissed off, always have." The tone – familial and fond – burned like acid.

"You're fucking right I am," he retorted, and jutted his chin up to look Steve in the eyes. If honesty was what Steve wanted, then James would give it to him. He was furious – but it was more at himself than Steve. He should've known better. "You _don't_ have to do this."

The scant space between them loomed larger than an ocean.

"I'm not you. This life, this...I can't. This isn't who I am. Maybe once, I could have been that man for you, but now? I wouldn't know how to start to be worthy of all this." Steve shrugged, but James had learned to be an expert in Steve Rogers all over again, and saw the sadness, and the grief, in his smile. That ripple of uncertainty, of doubt, that lingered in everything he did. That permeated everything he was. Always so fucking quick to sacrifice himself for everyone else, and it had to stop. James had to make him _see_ what he'd always seen. What he would always see when he looked at Steve.

He slowly uncurled his hands, swallowed the anger and the hurt until it wasn't threatening to consume him. But he didn't reach to bridge the distance between them. He wasn't sure he could trust himself that far just yet.

"You told me the other night that I didn't have to earn my arm or my life or anything else. The same thing applies to you, you know. You don't have to _earn_ this, Steve. You can just have it." 

_You can have everything_ , he wanted to say, but didn't. 

"I _can't_ quit. Not yet. I'm sorry. Maybe one day…"

He could argue – he knew that. He could press the issue, or deliver another ultimatum. But none of it would matter if Steve didn't want to listen. This was the march from Azzano back to the Allied base all over again, Steve, larger than life and twice as determined, with the body that finally matched his courage and his heart. He'd had that same look in his eyes back then, that same unholy mixture of righteous conviction and stubbornness and self-sacrifice. And, just like back then, there was nothing James could say or do to change his mind.

James had known from the second Natasha found him that getting Steve to let go of his demons wouldn't be easy. Steve was stubbornness incarnate, something James would have known if they'd just met five minutes ago. 

"Okay," he said, when all he really wanted to say was _I love you_ and _you don't have to do this_ and _please stay_. Steve had given him a _choice_ all those months ago in Texas. Had respected the choice James had made not to go back to New York. The least James could do was respect Steve's, no matter how much it cost him. "Do what makes you happy."

Steve let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. His eyes – home in a way that defied description – were still far too troubled. Defeated, when James could have once sworn that Steve didn't know the meaning of the word. "I have no idea what that even is anymore. Last night...this morning...might be the closest I've come to it since we were kids."

How was it possible for his heart to still be beating when it was breaking all around him, the shards flaying at his skin with every word out of Steve's mouth? 

He wasn't gone yet, James reminded himself. _You have a week to convince him to stay. To convince him to_ want _to stay._

"That's a pretty good starting point," he said, with a smile that felt far too brittle. "Why don't we go from there and see where it leads us?"

"You're not…" Steve reached out, fingers skimming across James' jaw, the touch gossamer light and burning like a brand. "You're still okay with _this_?" he asked, in the smallest voice James had ever heard. A boy still lost, with no idea on how to find his way home. 

All James could do was offer himself and hope, at the end of the day, that it would be enough. 

"If you think I'm not going to spend every second of the next seven days getting my hands on you every chance I can, then you really don't know me at all these days," he answered. "Unless you're changing _your_ mind –?"

"Not a fucking chance," Steve replied, and pulled James close for a kiss that finished shattering what was left of his soul.

***

_He'd failed._

_There was no other word for it. No sugarcoating the facts, no trying to deny the truth of it._

_The bombed out remains of the pub resembled nothing so much as his own heart. Ruined, a shell of its former self. Just that morning, both had been whole, but now? Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again._

_"Steve," Peggy started, then pursed her lips together, grief flashing across that show-stopping face._

_She'd loved Bucky, too. Steve knew that. But it wasn't enough. She didn't _know_ Bucky or what his loss really meant. She had no idea at the emptiness – the space – permeating Steve's every moment, every thought._

_Steve pulled the crumpled envelope out of his jacket pocket, and held it out to Peggy without a word. Nursed his ineffectual, worthless glass of whiskey as Peggy unfolded the letter inside and started reading. He knew every line by heart already._

__It's your job to look after him...to make sure he comes home safe. __

_The only thing Winifred Barnes – the second greatest woman he'd ever known – had asked of him in his entire life, and he'd failed her. Failed her and Mr. Barnes and Becca and Al and Gracie. Failed to bring their son, their brother, back home, safe and sound._

_Peggy's eyes were wet when she looked up. She put the letter back in the envelope and held it out to him, but he shook his head. His own cheeks were itchy with dried tears._

_"Keep it." He didn't want or need the reminder of the promise he'd made and hadn't kept._

_She nodded and set it on the table. "I had an older brother, too, you know," she said, after a few beats of silence. "His name was Michael."_

__Had. Was. _Already Steve hated where this conversation was going. He slid his hand over to Peggy, curled his fingers around hers, offering whatever comfort he could. Maybe she knew better than he'd thought what he was feeling. "What happened to him?"_

_"He died in '40, in the first year of the War. I was still a codebreaker at the time." She smiled, flimsy and small. "The last time I ever talked to him, we argued. The why seems so unimportant now, but I remember his last words to me. 'You were made for more than this', he told me. And I never forgot it. I joined the SSR because of him, you know."_

_"Buck always…" God, just saying his name pierced an arrow through the shredded remains of his heart. "He always had my back. He is – was – he was. I don't...Peg, I don't know how I'm gonna face his sisters, his folks…"_

_She cupped his cheek with her free hand, and brushed a light kiss across his lips. "It wasn't your fault, Steve. I promise you, they'll be happy enough one of their sons came home."_

_He nodded, but said nothing. She was wrong, but he didn't have the strength left to argue. It was easier to sit with her under the crumbling ceiling and match his breathing to hers._

***

"You want me to create an excuse, give you a few more days?"

James gave Natasha's proposal some thought – it was tempting, God, it was tempting – before sighing. "No, he needs to choose to quit," he said, bracing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he lifted another armful of wood and debris from the pile in the front yard and tossed it into the truck bed. He _really_ needed to get a bluetooth headset at some point. "It won't mean anything if I manipulate him into it."

"That doesn't sound like much fun," Natasha remarked.

James let out a small laugh. "That's not the word I'd use, no."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. And tell Steve not to worry about Marcel."

He straightened, grabbed the phone before he dropped it, and gripped it tight in his flesh hand. "You got her?"

"Yes, we did." There was a wealth of satisfaction in her voice.

"I'll be damned," he replied, impressed. "Yeah, I'll definitely let him know."

At least James wouldn't have to worry about Steve getting himself killed chasing down one of the most brutal killers Hydra had ever produced.

"I'll see you next week, unless something changes. And, for the record, I hope it does. Your ledgers are more than squared away – both of you."

They weren't, and he knew she knew it. But he couldn't spend the rest of his life trying to fix the past. All he could do now was try to build a better future for himself, and show Steve the same path. "Thanks. But it's not up to me."

They said their goodbyes and James finished loading the truck. Maybe they could haul it down to the dump before dinner.

Steve was right where James had left him an hour before – in the garden planting the basil and cilantro they'd bought the other day. The sun was setting behind the mountains, dipping behind the trees in a burst of pinks and yellows, the sight reminding him of standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon. Looking down at the gorge and feeling small. Insignificant. Like all of his troubles and worries and sins didn't matter, not when there was something this awe-inspiring in the world.

He'd lost so much, but he still had the Grand Canyon and autumn sunsets and, for the moment, Steve. Rock-solid and dependable and _real_. Filling the cracks and crevasses inside James' soul simply by virtue of his existence. He hated the thought that he wasn't enough to help fill the fissures in Steve's. 

Maybe Steve leaving was his punishment. The universe's way of balancing itself out, giving him a glimpse of what his life could be, the happiness he might've had, if he hadn't become what he'd become. How could he have ever thought he'd be allowed to have this, after all the blood he'd shed, all the people he'd hurt, all of the lives he'd ruined...? 

No. _No._

He couldn't – he refused – to think like that. Steve had his own reasons for leaving, for going after Hydra. Had his own reasons for the brutal methods he'd been using, the trail of dead bodies he'd been leaving in his wake. Reasons that James _knew_ had nothing to do with anything other than Steve's guilt. James couldn't make it about himself. He'd worked too long and hard the past few months to go back down that road.

He watched as Steve finished patting the dirt over the seedlings, then sat back on his heels. His jeans and t-shirt were filthy, but it wasn't like James himself was any cleaner. And he much preferred having dirt and paint and caulk under his nails than gun oil or blood.

"You actually gonna come back over here and help or are you just gonna stand there and supervise?" Steve called, and his smile was like the sun coming out all over again. Bright and brilliant and all for James. Steve smiled at James like he _mattered_ , like there was nothing he'd rather do, and no place he'd rather be.

Even if it was just an illusion, James would take it. 

"I might," he said, proud of himself for the teasing tone. He could do this. "Watching you do all the work is a lot more fun than doing it myself."

Steve let out a bright laugh. "You used to say the same thing to me and the girls when we were kids. Used to drive Becca nuts."

Becca. His sisters. The family he still couldn't quite remember. Memories he might never get back. So many gaps between the person he used to be and the person he was now, and the only connective tissue was the man in front of him. The only person who could fill in the pieces for him, and he was _leaving_ and taking all of those memories with him.

Fuck that. He was tired of taking scraps and telling himself not to expect any more.

"I'll be right back," he mumbled, and walked back into the house before Steve could reply. 

Steve's sketchbook and pencil were right on the bedside table where he'd left them this morning. James grabbed both and went back outside, and dropped to his haunches in front of Steve.

Steve glanced at him with a slight frown when he thrust the items out. "You wanted to see something?" he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans before accepting them.

"I want you to draw my sisters," he said.

"Oh." Steve gripped the book and his pencil tight in both hands. "You...now?"

"Right here, right now." He dropped to the ground and crossed his legs, content to wait as long as it took. 

"Okay, then," Steve replied, but it sounded like each word was being forced out of him. He sat next to James. "You sure you're ready? Last time we did this, it didn't go so well for either of us."

"You're right," James said. "Last time I _wasn't_ ready. To think about you or my family or where I came from. It's different now." He tapped the sketchbook with a finger. "I want to remember our childhood and what my sisters looked like and what your mom looked like when she was scolding us and every time I wanted to kill you for being a stubborn dick –"

"– More often than you might think," Steve said, with a strained smile. 

"I don't doubt it, especially as mule-headed as you are about everything," he replied, with his own faint smile. "But I don't want to take you down any road you're not willing to go, so if you're not – I mean, I know I upset you that day I brought up your mother –"

"That wasn't because of you," Steve told him. "I was just. Surprised you remembered is all."

"Yeah, you said, but I still feel –"

" _Anything_ you want," Steve interrupted. "I mean it, if I have to tattoo it on you somewhere, I will. Tell me what you need." 

_I need you to stay._

He bit his tongue, choked back the words threatening to spill out. This wasn't the time or the place. He had time, and right now, what he really wanted was to reclaim _something_ about where he'd come from.

He was a different person now, with different dreams, and a different life, but he'd still _come_ from somewhere. He still had a past and a family, had been loved and loved in return. 

"You can start by drawing my sisters," he said, softer now. "And maybe telling me about them. What you remember."

"Jesus, you gotta narrow it down for me a little more than that." But Steve flipped the book to a blank page. "There wasn't a day I wasn't around them until the morning I shipped out to Lehigh. That's a lot of years." 

Which, fair enough. "How old were they?" he asked. "When we shipped out?"

"Um…" Steve paused, eyes squinting in thought. "Becca was 20, Alice had just turned 18, and Grace, well, she was 16 going on 30, to hear your mother tell it." 

So young. God, they'd had their whole lives still ahead of them. 

"The other night, I...I had a memory of comforting them during a thunderstorm," he said, hesitant, and sighed in relief when Steve just nodded.

"Yeah, you were really good at distracting them." His pencil flew across the page in bold strokes as he talked. James tried – and failed – not to be amazed at how easy he made it look. Steve may have been remolded by science into a perfect fighting machine, but he'd been _created_ to be an artist. "You used to tell 'em bedtime stories."

He felt a niggling at the back of his mind. Himself, standing at the foot of a bed, waving his arms expansively, childish voices begging for more, _please, Buck, five more minutes…_ "Like, I read to them?"

Steve shot him a quick, amused glance. "No, nothing that easy. Not for your best girls. You made up stories, and sometimes I'd sit with you, sketch out a few illustrations to go with 'em. Your tales of Ricky and Roxy were the most requested."

"Ricky the Basset Hound and Roxy the Terrier," James said, then let out an amazed, high-pitched laugh. "Oh my God, I _remember_ that."

"Yeah, and their arch nemesis, Wally the dogcatcher." Steve grinned, then bent back over the page. 

The name sounded – there was something about it. Wally, Wallace, no, that wasn't it. But there was something about one of his sisters, something…

He straightened as it came to him. "Hey, didn't Becca have a beau or someone she was sweet on named Walter? Walter Douglas, he went to our church, right?"

Steve's head shot back up, his eyes as wide as saucers. "You remember _Walter_?"

James nodded. "Yeah. We used to follow him and Becca when they went out walking together, right?" he asked, but didn't even wait for Steve to nod before continuing. "She used to wear these bright ribbons in her hair, which is how we'd keep track of her..."

He swayed in place, dizzy. A dam bursting in his mind, as memory after memory spilled forth, so many he couldn't keep track. 

"Buck?" Steve asked, his voice far away. Like he was at the other end of a long tunnel. "You alright?"

"Becca had blue eyes, blue-grey like mine...she hated how skinny she was, but she was so tickled pink the day she realized she was taller than you." The words tumbled forth in a rush, faster and faster, as he struggled to keep up with all of the images in his head. "Gracie had freckles on her cheeks and these...these dainty little feet and this snaggle tooth that she hated, and Al – Alice...she looked just like my mother. Same nose and eyes and hair…a smile that could light the room... Half the neighborhood was sweet on her."

He was sure he had to have the biggest, wildest grin on his face when he met Steve's gaze. " _Steve_...I remember them."

He _remembered_. 

His girls. His bright, beautiful, adoring, impetuous, stubborn sisters. The center of his entire world, along with Steve and his folks.

Steve dropped the pad and pencil and grabbed James' hands. "They loved you so much, Buck, and after you – after we – well, they made sure to keep you alive," he whispered, his voice aching and raw. "Becca even named one of her sons after you."

James held on, gripped Steve's hands so tight he started to lose feeling in his fingers. He could feel tears coursing down his cheeks, but they were the good kind. Cleansing. "I thought I'd lost them, but I didn't."

"No, you didn't," Steve replied. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red and his cheeks blotchy. But that smile was still there – joyous and so fucking happy for James, and James' heart stuttered in his chest at the sight. 

At least he had this much. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't enough, but it was something he could hold onto. Another layer to add to the foundation he was building for himself.

***

_The chair appeared as it always did, the metal cool and all-encompassing around him. He struggled – he always struggled, but the cuffs surrounding his wrists and forehead only tightened._

_"Look at me."_

_He obeyed on instinct, met those lifeless, soulless eyes. Compliance would be rewarded._

_He no longer struggled. Why should he? There was always a chair. There were always restraints. There was always a gun for him to shoot. Always a mission to complete._

_"Your work shaped the century," he was told. "Now I just need you to do one more thing. Can you do that for me?"_

_What choice did he have? What choice did he ever have? He was merely a weapon, and weapons were of no use unless they were used._

  
"Buck...Bucky, c'mon, wake up, you're okay, it's just a…" 

James sucked in a harsh breath, and opened his eyes to find Steve sitting up next to him in the bed. Hand hovering just above his shoulder, like Steve was afraid to bridge the final couple of inches between them. Worry etched into every line of Steve's face.

"Steve?" he croaked. He flexed his hands once experimentally – no restraints. He was his own person. He was free.

Steve broke into a relieved smile. "Hey, there you are. You okay, you with me?"

"Yeah, I'm…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, and listened to that voice in his head – _Inhale slowly, one two three, exhale slowly, one two three, there you go, keep going_ – until his heart rate slowed. Steve just hovered next to him, patient, silent. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Steve replied, and brushed his thumb across the space between James' brows. "You need any water or –?"

He shook his head. He still couldn't get enough air in his lungs; his throat was far too tight. "No, I need…out. Going outside, it helps," he clarified. 

"Okay, then let's go outside." Steve climbed out of the bed and held out a hand. "C'mon."

James allowed himself to be pulled up, and they both walked to the sliding glass door in the living room, then out onto the deck. They were both shirtless and barefoot, only wearing their sleep pants, but right now, James wanted to feel the cool mountain air against his skin. So much different than the artificially cold air of his cryo chamber.

Steve stood next to him against the railing, and curled his hand around James'. Their arms and shoulders brushed together, the warmth seeping into his skin, driving the last vestiges of the dream away. James took a deep breath, then another. The knot in his chest started to slowly unravel. 

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. He had a past and a family and a life that was all his, one he'd _chosen_ of his own free will. He was never going back to the chair again, and never picking up another weapon unless it was to defend himself or Steve.

"Do you think…?" he started, then looked out across the sleepy back yard to the trees beyond. Peaceful in the silvery hue from the light of the moon. "I mean, you don't think it's..."

"Take your time," Steve said, all quiet. Like he, too, could sense the gravity of the moment, and didn't want to disturb it. 

"You don't think this – all of this –" He swept out a hand to encompass the land and the house and himself "– is...that I'm asking too much, after everything I've done?"

He couldn't articulate what he was trying so desperately to say – but Steve seemed to get it, could read him the way he always had, because the look on his face softened. There was so much love and empathy in his eyes, and every time James looked at him, he felt like he was one step closer to splintering apart. 

"I think if you want this..." Steve shrugged. "If you want to build a life here, get a dog or make wine or just...do nothing, then do it. You deserve…well, you deserve the world."

_So do you,_ he thought. Steve deserved so much more. They both deserved _better_ , after everything they'd been through and all they'd suffered.

"Can you – do you want to tell me about the dreams?" Steve asked, with a squeeze of his hand. "You don't have to, but it might do some good."

His skin prickled all over, but he nodded. Maybe finally talking about it might help. "Sometimes I'm back in the chair. Other times I'm on a mission – doesn't matter which one – and they're begging for mercy or clemency or...well, it doesn't matter. It never made a difference how much they begged. And sometimes _I'm_ the one on my knees begging. The old me, I mean."

"Jesus." Steve's face was ash white. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too." James tilted his head up to look at the stars. So many of them. So many possibilities, so many chances. He wondered if there was some place in the universe where a killer like him could find forgiveness. Where a version of himself and Steve could be truly happy, in whatever form that took. Or if that idea of happiness was just another myth that had died long before he'd fallen into Zola's hands the first time.

"The thing is, though, I'm okay with it. The dreams, I mean," he clarified.

"How?" Steve asked, his voice sandpaper rough.

"Because I didn't used to dream. Back when Hydra had me." He met Steve's eyes again. Pure and soothing, reminded him of spring and renewal and the afternoon sky up here in the mountains. "I'm okay with them because every dream is a reminder that I'm free now. I don't belong to them anymore."

Steve drew him in and wrapped those strong arms around him. Comfort and friendship and so much unconditional love. "You really are the strongest person I know," Steve murmured, his lips brushing against James' hair before pulling back to offer him a small smile. "You always were. Even when we were kids, I knew all I had to do was follow in your footsteps and I'd be okay."

Steve stated it like a simple fact. Like it was one of the tenets holding the universe in place. The truth of it burrowed its way inside James' heart, lodged in so deep it was like it had always been there, forever a part of the fabric of his existence. Something neither time nor torture nor his own disjointed memories could erase.

He'd done so many unforgivable things, but still Steve looked at him the same way he always did. Like he was a hero. Like he was worth something. Like he was worth _saving_.

And he hoped – God, he hoped – that Steve could one day see that James had always, and _would_ always, look right back at him the exact same way.

"I was following you right back, you know," he said, answering with his own truth.

He may not remember everything, but this? This he _knew_ deep in his bones. This was the real core that Zola and Fennhoff and Hydra and Pierce had never been able to burn out of him. His own creed, a personal North Star guiding him back from the darkness.

"Bucky..." Steve's lips were trembling, as was his voice. All James wanted to do was pull him in, offer comfort, assurances. Whatever Steve needed.

"I mean it," he quietly insisted. Cupped the back of Steve's neck to pull him back in. "I don't need to have all of my memories back to know that I would follow you right into Hell if you asked me to. I'd march alongside you every step of the way and count myself lucky."

Steve started trembling harder, goosebumps rising under James' hand. "You did that for me already," he whispered, devastated. His eyes were so large, the blue of them overtaking the black. "I'd never ask you to –"

"You _wouldn't_ have to ask," James whispered back. " _Whatever_ it is you need from me, just assume the answer is yes."

"That's…" Steve shook his head, disbelieving, "you can't use my own words against me like that."

James just lifted an eyebrow. " _Watch_ me," he said, and molded their bodies together, slanted his mouth over Steve's, the kiss hot and hungry. Steve let out a groan, then clutched at the small of his back, and the next kiss, all sliding tongues and harsh nips of teeth, finished driving away the memories of blood and gunfire and screams. 

Above them, the stars continued to shine, bright pinpricks of light blanketing the sky.

***

(Art by [**Not-Worms**](http://not-worms.tumblr.com)) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not-Worms created an amazing art piece based on the sketch Steve drew of him and Bucky. You can find it [here](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/post/156588347514/not-worms-from-part-15-of-brendaonao3-s)!!!


	16. (Part XVI – "End of the Line")

"We should –” James’ body was on fire, burning him from the inside as Steve dove back in for another kiss "– _fuck_...go. Inside.” 

Inside had a bed. A nice, big bed where they could lay out and take their time and explore each other. James had yet to really get his hands on Steve, and he was itching to map out every bit of Steve’s body with his hands and lips.

"Too far,” Steve groaned, and tugged at the waistband of James’ pants to bunch them around his thighs. His hand, searingly hot and tight, closed around James’ cock the next moment.

Each kiss was messy, frantic, with needy nips of teeth and the eager slide of Steve's mouth against his, and James fell into it, followed Steve as he always did. He bucked into Steve's fist, seeking relief to the almost unbearable tightness in his groin, and swallowed every one of Steve's raspy grunts of pleasure. They fit together so easily, two puzzle pieces slotting together, firm lips and soft tongues, gliding, taking, _giving_.

He was clinging to sanity by the barest of threads, his skin felt stretched too thin across his body, and he never wanted Steve to stop. Could feel the hard thudding of Steve's heart beating against his own, the spike of it punching through him when he grabbed at Steve's sweats and yanked down. "Need...c’mon...”

"No, I’ve got...let me…” Steve mumbled, and got his hand around both of them, stroking hard and just this side of too rough, sweat and precome smearing between them. 

James rocked forward, dragged his hands along Steve’s arms and shoulders, marking muscle and skin with ragged nails and sharp metal. Clutched tight as he started to splinter apart, so close already, and Steve just urged him on with every twist of his wrist and slide of his fingers. 

He buried his moan in the back of Steve's throat as his orgasm hit, the earth slamming up to meet him in a shattering rush that blew stars behind his eyes and tore the breath from his throat. A couple of seconds later, Steve shuddered against him, grunting something unintelligible as he came as well. 

They bumped noses, huffed out breathless laughs, as they both shivered with aftershocks. James felt like he was floating, lethargic and sated. His teeth raked a light path against Steve’s chin, mouth catching on hard bristles. "I gotta wonder if we’re ever gonna do anything where we’re, I dunno, horizontal.”

Steve let out a weak chuckle. "It’s not like anything else about this – _us_ – is conventional.”

Which was probably the understatement of the year, if not the decade.

"Yeah, but I really want to...y’know, explore you. Find all the little secret places on your body that’ll make you shiver or melt, or get you all revved up,” James replied, lifting his head. He was still close enough to make out the ring of cobalt around Steve’s irises. "Not that I’m complaining about what we just did, but I still haven’t gotten to get my hands on you the way I want.”

He wanted to know every single thing about what made Steve sigh in pleasure or moan in need. Next time, he was making it a point to at least get to touch Steve’s dick and start to learn what he liked.

Steve just groaned and gave him a hard kiss. "You’re fucking killin’ me here.”

"I can think of worse ways to go,” James replied, with a laugh. 

"Yeah, so can I.” Then Steve gave him another kiss, this one softer now, slower, and the perfect way to come down. "You ready to head back to bed?”

"You think we could bunk out here?” Maybe sleeping with Steve under the stars might help keep the dreams at bay for the rest of the night.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, of course. Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll bring out some blankets and pillows.”

"Thanks.”

James pulled his pants back up and waited, shivering a little now that the adrenaline of both the dream and the orgasm had worn off. Maybe he should buy a daybed or hammock or something for the deck. For the nights when the nightmares seemed too real, and Steve wasn’t here to offer support or a distraction. Especially now that he knew he couldn’t call Steve the way he used to, now that he knew how dangerous and precarious Steve’s missions were. The last thing he wanted was to distract Steve at a crucial moment or call him when he needed to be focused on the job at hand.

"If we’re gonna do this regularly, we should probably buy some sleeping bags,” Steve said, as he stepped back out onto the deck. His arms were filled with blankets and pillows. It looked like he’d grabbed every quilt and comforter James had. 

_Do this regularly_ , like Steve wasn’t leaving in less than a week. Like it would matter. James wondered if Steve even realized what he was saying. 

"Yeah,” he said, and reached out for a few of the blankets. "I was just thinking the same thing.”

By the time they both climbed into the makeshift bed, James was so tired his eyelids were dropping. He wasn’t sure if it was the long day or the crazy emotional roller coaster of the past twenty–four hours, but he felt like he could sleep for a solid six without moving. A far cry from his Winter Soldier days, when he could go for a week with little to no sleep and still be as sharp as ever.

Steve pulled him in close, and it was easy enough to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder and drape his arm across Steve’s chest. "You good?” Steve murmured.

"Yeah.” He let out a small, contented sigh. "Thanks for...indulging me.” 

"Hey, you know I know what it’s like. God knows you’ve indulged me enough this past week,” Steve said quietly. "Even before then, with all of your phone calls and texts. You helped, more than you know.”

"Part of me…” He turned to press a kiss to warm skin. "Every time I have one of those dreams, I’m...I’m terrified I could become that person again.”

"You won’t be.” Steve sounded so confident, so sure. Didn’t even hesitate.

"How do you know?” James asked, plaintively.

"Because I _know_ you,” Steve said, and tugged James even closer. "You were always the one who saw the good in people, and defended everyone on our block. You were the best of all of us.”

He didn’t think that was true at all – he was pretty sure that honor went to Steve – but he appreciated the lie all the same. Appreciated that Steve thought enough of him to tell it. "Steve…I just…” He lifted his head so he could meet Steve’s gaze. "I just want you to know that I’m glad you said yes. To... to coming here. Being here. With me.”

No matter what happened, he wouldn’t regret this. _Them._ He wouldn’t trade their time together, not for anything. 

Steve urged him down, parted his lips with a kiss. Breathed the next words into James’ mouth, so soft they were almost carried away in the night breeze. "Buck, you gotta know...there is no place on earth I’d rather be than with you.”

The worst part was, James could tell Steve truly meant it. 

***

Bucky held up two wood floor samples and gave Steve a questioning look. "You like the Aged Harmony Spice or the Somerset Maple better?”

They were at Parson’s Lumber and Hardware Store, picking up the drywall and mud to fix up the ceiling holes (created when they’d ripped out the wall the week before), and looking at new flooring for the living room and kitchen area. They’d also spend the better part of the morning measuring out the loft space for Bucky’s eventual plans to convert it into a more usable space, with Steve sketching out a few schematics for Bucky to use. 

It kept surprising him, how much fun he was having helping Bucky with all of his plans and designs. With using his strength and skills for something that wasn’t a fight or a mission. It was nice to think that maybe, one day, when he’d finished the job he should’ve done in ‘45 – once he’d righted his most egregious wrong – he could do something different with his life. Maybe take a page from Bucky’s book and forge a new path, one that had nothing to do with being Captain America or a soldier.

Maybe Tony was right. Once he was done eradicating Hydra from the map, he could...train someone, maybe, or find out if there was a way to hand the shield over to someone else. It would be nice, to have a life filled with days just like this – just him and Bucky together, working on their house and running errands and just...being _normal_. 

Going for a run together every morning, doing various projects or chores around the house, spending their evenings playing chess or poker. And, every night, going to sleep curled together, each protecting the other from nightmares and demons, from the past with all of its regrets and all of its sins. Neither one on the run or under any obligation to anyone else, or tired or hungry or worried about an unexpected bill or illness or whether the evening would be interrupted by some maniac who wanted to destroy or take over the world, or if someone was going to try to kill them.

 _I could be happy here. I could be happy with this._ The thought popped in his head, unbidden, but Steve shivered at the truth in it. He _could_ be happy. 

He just had to earn it first.

"Stevie, you okay?”

With a start, Steve looked up, meeting Bucky’s concerned frown. "Yeah, sorry. Got lost in my own head for a minute,” he said, and returned his attention to the samples in front of him. "Uh, go with the Spice. I think it’ll go better with the furniture you picked out.”

"Good point.” Bucky noted the item number in his phone, so they could give it to one of the salespeople later, then put it back in his pocket. "You mind if we drop by Cast again before we head back up to the house? Rick, the vigneron, he wanted me to bring him a few soil samples from the vineyard so I could figure out what I want to plant for a cover crop this winter.”

"Yeah, that’s….of course. Whatever you want.”

"You sure you won’t be bored?”

Bored was the last word he’d choose. "No, it’s fun watching you get excited,” he replied. 

"I know, it’s weird, but I really am. I mean, I’ve got a lot to learn, and I’ll need to hire some help at some point, but I think it’ll be fun,” Bucky said, with a wide grin. The one Steve loved best these days – showing off the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. "Just think, next time you come home, I might have a fully operational vineyard.”

"James Buchanan Barnes, gentleman farmer,” Steve teased. "Never thought I’d see the day.”

Bucky just shot him a sidelong glance. "That's the idea.” 

Steve couldn’t get over how _content_ he looked. It wasn't something Steve could ever remember seeing, and it suddenly struck him that this might be the first time in Bucky’s entire life that he didn’t have any responsibilities. Not to his family or to school or a job or an organization. He was free in a way neither of them could have ever imagined in their wildest dreams. 

Bucky had grown and changed so much in the last few months, and getting to witness those changes with his own eyes – the way he laughed easier, was more tactile, at home in his own skin and in his environment – fuck, it was amazing. A miracle that Steve was privileged to witness.

"You know I’m proud as hell of you, right?” 

Bucky gave him a quizzical look. "What’s this about?”

"I just...I don’t think I’ve told you yet.” He fumbled out the next words, each one halting, but heartfelt. "The way you...saved yourself. The, uh, way you’re rebuilding your life – fuck, you’re amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

Full lips trembled slightly when Bucky smiled. "You’re making it really hard not to kiss you right now, you know.”

In answer, Steve just took his hand and tugged him closer. "There a reason why you’re not?”

"Uh...I dunno, we’re in public, and we haven’t exactly _talked_ about this yet?” Bucky said, even though he came willingly enough into Steve’s embrace.

Fuck, he was gonna miss this. The easy comfort and easy physicality, holding Bucky close every night, and having Bucky within touching and kissing distance every day. He may not have the slightest idea how everything would work after he left Glen Ellen, or how they were going to navigate their way around how things were different now, but he could at least give Bucky something. Could take another small thing for himself, as well. 

"You have my full permission to kiss me whenever you want, _wherever_ you want,” he said. "I know this is new for both of us, but I don’t mind showing off my best guy.”

Something dark flashed in Bucky’s eyes for just a second, there and gone in a blink. But then he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. "Your best guy, huh?” he asked, with a look Steve couldn’t quite decipher. "Is that what I am?”

"Yeah, you are. Best and one and only,” Steve replied, and leaned in to press a light kiss to Bucky’s lips. It must’ve done the trick, because Bucky was smiling when they parted, his look playful now, mischievous. 

"You always been this romantic?”

Steve let him go with another kiss. "Fuck no, I was way too awkward. You were the romantic one. I used to copy your moves all the time.”

"I guess I taught you well, then,” Bucky said, as they headed down the drywall aisle, Steve pushing the cart. "Hey, so...tomorrow – I mean, I hate taking a day off from the reno when you’re only here the next few days – but I was thinking we should drive down to get your bike.”

"My bike?” Steve asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, it’s still at Tony’s place in Malibu, right?”

"Oh yeah.” He’d forgotten all about that. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d even given it to Bucky. "Yeah, sure, but...why do you want it?” 

Bucky just shook his head like he was disappointed. "So you have it for when you come back. Unless you don’t _want_ it here,” he added, with that same, quick, indecipherable look from earlier. 

_This is your home too._ Bucky may as well have been shouting it. Steve could _feel_ their time together running out, and he had no idea how to hang onto it without splitting himself into two.

"No, you know what, that’s perfect,” he replied, with a smile that he knew was strained. "I’d rather have it here with you than at Tony’s. Even if I think you’re only doing it so you can drive it around all the time.” 

Bucky spread out his arms with one of his patented fuck you grins. "Busted.” 

"I knew it,” Steve said, and tried to recapture some of the earlier easiness. "I should just give it to you.”

Bucky just bumped against him, his look sly. "Nah, I don’t think I’d like driving it half as much if it was mine instead of yours.”

Steve had no idea why he started blushing. 

***

_"Do me a favor when we get home and shoot me if I ever fucking complain about another Brooklyn winter," Bucky said, teeth chattering against the gust of wind coming from off the top of the snow–capped mountain. They couldn't even risk a meager fire, lest an enemy patrol spot them._

_"Tell me about it," Steve replied, and lifted his arm and his blanket in invitation. Normally, Bucky would scoff and protest – he wasn't one of his sisters, alright, he could look out for himself – but fuck that. Steve was like a walking furnace nowadays, and every single one of the Howlies had snuggled against him for warmth at some point. Bucky was no exception._

_He scooted in, sighed gratefully when Steve pulled him close. "It's crazy how different this is," he remarked, all but weeping as the blood started circulating and feeling returned to his extremities. "Seems like just yesterday it was me warming your skinny bones up."_

_"Well, it's not like it was _that_ long ago," Steve replied, with a nod to Dum Dum and Falsworth as they walked back into camp, their watch at an end. They both gave quick salutes, then ducked into their tent (not that it offered much shelter from the wind), and Gabe and Jacques headed out, faces all but hidden under their scarves and helmets._

_Thirty minutes until Bucky and Steve were up._

_"You know you can sit this one out, right?" Steve asked, keeping his voice down, although Bucky had no idea why. Odds were, Dum Dum and Falsworth were probably too busy trying to get a few minutes of sleep to even care about what their CO and his second were talking about._

_Bucky scoffed, then poked two hard fingers against Steve’s ribcage – right where he used to be the most ticklish. "And let you go after Zola without anyone watching your six? Are you nuts? My own mother wouldn't let me in the front door if she ever found out I did such a thing, let alone the girls."_

_"Your mom and sisters aren't here, Buck. And I know what –"_

_"Shut it." Bucky elbowed him this time, hard enough to bruise if the self–sacrificing idiot he called a best friend_ could _still bruise. "If the mission is Zola, then we get Zola. And if you're getting on that train, then I'll be right behind you, saving your ass the way I always have."_

_Like hell Bucky was sitting this one out. Even if Steve ordered him to stand down, he’d risk the damn court martial. His place was watching Steve’s back, just like always._

_"Fine," Steve sighed, conceding defeat. "I don't even know why I try to talk any sense into you, it's not like you know how to listen."_

_"That's rich as hell coming from you," Bucky told him, with a quick grin, his good humor restored. "Now shut the fuck up so I can try to catch a few winks before it's our watch."_

_"Yeah, yeah," Steve answered, and just pulled the blanket tighter around Bucky's shoulders._

***

The fence around the edge of the property was old and rotting, kept upright by sheer luck and a fuckton of barbed wire; not remotely secure enough for Steve's comfort. Not with Hydra still out there. There was no way Steve was leaving without at least making sure the perimeter was as safe as it could be. Which was why they were taking the day to replace the wood with reinforced steel and laying a few booby traps along the way.

It was another hot one, but the wind was keeping things cool enough that Steve didn't feel overheated. And it was mindless enough work to rip out the old fencing and dig new holes so Bucky could slide the new posts in. Bucky'd brought out a cooler filled with water and beer, and a radio tuned in to the local pop station again.

"You think I should install a few landmines?" Bucky asked, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"Sure, if you think you'll remember where they are." He took advantage of the break to finish his water bottle, and tossed the empty into the cooler. "I'd hate to think of you accidentally blowing yourself up because you forgot." 

Bucky huffed out an easy laugh. "That sounds familiar. Dernier? Didn’t he almost do something like that?"

"Gabe, actually. Although it was Dernier's homemade bomb, so you weren't too far off," Steve replied. "You were the one that pulled Gabe back just in time. Thought Jacques was going to faint."

Bucky got that far–off look he sometimes did when trying to recall the old days. "If I remember correctly, you weren't exactly steady on your feet yourself."

"No, I wasn't," Steve admitted. He'd been terrified, in fact. His entire life had flashed right before his eyes; everything had happened so fast. Between one step and the next, Bucky'd yanked Gabe back by his shirt collar and a nonchalant _three steps to your right_ , and had kept marching, like everything was still perfectly fine. Even now, thinking about it gave Steve chills. 

"You were right behind him. If Gabe _had_ stepped on that mine, you would have caught just as much shrapnel." He could have lost them both that day, and the only thing that had prevented it was Bucky's picture–perfect memory and quick reflexes. The perfect big brother, even to the rest of the Howlies, looking out for everyone the way he always had.

"But I didn't." Bucky nudged his shoulder, like he could sense the direction of Steve's thoughts, and wanted to reassure him he was real. "We were a good team. We looked out for each other."

"Yeah, we did." Even now, with the team he'd had the past few years, Steve still found himself missing the Howlies and that closeness. The way they'd all been able to work together so seamlessly, no clashing egos or arguments, just pure teamwork at its finest.

"We did a lot of good back then, huh." Bucky sounded so uncertain. _Jesus_ , this was all still so fucked up. That Bucky still had so many dark holes in his memory he might never fill. That _this_ , of all things, would be something he needed clarified.

Wiping Hydra off the map was honestly too easy of a punishment for them.

"We saved a lot of lives," Steve answered, hoping Bucky could hear how sincere he was. 

"We were good men?" 

"Tried our best to be." Every word was thick on his tongue, buried under the weight of everything he wanted to say. _You were the goddamn best of us, and I know you don't remember everything, but I do, I do, I swear, I'll never forget..._

Bucky nodded, once, then fixed Steve with a hard, searching stare. From lost and aching to professional interrogator in the blink of an eye. "Then tell me why you can’t take your team with you when you head back out on Hydra’s trail. I’d feel a lot better knowing you had people you can trust to watch your back.”

Steve froze, the shovel poised in mid–air. He'd steeled himself for every question under the sun _except_ that one. "You know why I can’t," he finally answered, and started digging another hole. 

"No, actually, I don’t.”

Bucky’d crossed his arms, legs planted shoulder–width apart. His hair was pulled into its customary messy bun, strands falling into his face. Like Steve, he was in a dirt–streaked t–shirt and worn jeans – his had a hole in the knee, and Steve could see skin and dark hair peeking out. 

Steve's throat closed at the sight of him, the way it so often did now. He'd torture and kill a hundred more Hydra agents, burn a hundred more bases to the ground, if it meant Bucky could have this. Have this beautiful house in the mountains and grow herbs and make plans for growing grapes, far from Hydra's reach. If it meant Bucky could have something just for himself, a safe haven from the evils of the world.

"Because it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re safe,” he said. "No one else’s.”

"I never asked you to go after them," Bucky replied. "Especially not by yourself.”

Steve tightened his grip on the shovel. He didn't look up. He couldn't. "You didn't have to," he rasped, his throat closing on the words. Useless against the rage beating against his ribs. "I knew my job."

"What job?"

"Protecting you." When he finally lifted his head, Bucky was still standing there. Real and mostly whole, and Steve would do _anything_ at all to make sure Bucky stayed this way. "I made your family a promise in 1943, Buck. After the serum, it was _my_ turn to look after you, my turn to take the punches meant for you, the bullets meant for you. And I couldn't even do that. I couldn't protect you from Zola either time he had you, and I have to live with that. But I never would have been able to live with it if I'd sat by and done nothing after they –"

"Why not?" Bucky asked, interrupting him without a qualm. 

"What do you mean, why not?" The shovel hit the ground with a thud as Steve straightened to his full height, and stared at Bucky in shock. "They've killed thousands of people. Maybe more. They corrupted SHIELD, corrupted _you_ , forced you to kill for them –"

"I know what they did to me. I was there for it."

 _And you weren't._ Bucky couldn't have been more clear if he'd yelled. Steve flinched, shame and guilt coursing through him. "I'm sorry, you gotta believe me, I never wanted –"

"Steve." Bucky took a step forward. His eyes, always so blue and teeming with emotion these days, were laser–focused on Steve. "I don't _want_ your sorrow or your pity or your guilt or you heading out on some goddamn Crusade in my name. It won't change anything or bring anyone back or help either of us go back in time. You could kill a million people and it still won't change a fucking thing about what happened. It still won't change what I did or the people I hurt and the lives I ruined, and it sure as fuck won't make it right." 

"I know that." It was an effort to stay still. To keeps his hands loose at his sides. To not lash out, jut his chin in a dare. "But it's the best I can offer. It's what I'm good at."

"You were made for more than this," Bucky told him, and Jesus, the irony was a killer. 

"No, I wasn’t. I was made for _exactly_ this.” Made to be the perfect soldier, the perfect machine.

"Fuck the serum,” Bucky swore, "I’m talking about _you_ , alright. Just because some fucking scientists gave you some hi–tech steroids in a lab somewhere doesn’t mean they own you. You’re your own person.”

 _I asked for an army, and all I got was you._ You _are not enough._

Even now, he could hear the Colonel’s voice as clear as if it had happened yesterday. The disappointment and admonishment, both of them burrowing their way deep inside him. More fuel to add to the fire, the anger that had always been a part of who he was, as far back as he could remember.

Who was he without a mission? Without being a soldier? Without a purpose? 

"So I should just, what, stand down, forget my fucking duty, become some sort of bohemian or...I don’t know –”

"You don’t owe the world anything. Your only reason for being here is to just _be_.” Another two steps and Bucky was right in front of him. Poking his chest with a metal finger, the force of it hard enough to push him back a step. "And the sooner you get square with that, the better off you'll be."

"How the hell can you forgive everyone who hurt you? Who stripped you of who you were, made you kill for them? How can you not want every single one of them broken and bleeding at your feet?"

"I _don't_ forgive them, that's just it." Bucky's smile was terrifying. The smile of a predator. A killer, the remorseless machine he'd been for decades. "I'd bathe in their blood if I thought it would wash the stain off my hands. But it won't. And the only thing I can do – the only revenge that means a damn – is living as long as possible. Starting over from scratch and living a nice, long, _peaceful_ life." 

He spread his arms out wide, encompassing the land and the hills and everything else around him. "This is the best fucking payback I can think of – taking their perfect killer and obedient soldier and using all of that knowledge and training to mend fences and grow grapes."

 _Sometimes the best we can do is start over._

Peggy's words rang in Steve's ears, as clear as if she was standing right next to them. Peggy, his beautiful, wise girl, who'd built a legacy out of protecting people. Out of keeping Steve's memory alive, keeping the spirit of who he was alive. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.

"Well, you’ve suffered enough. You’ve _earned_ this.” 

He'd more than paid the price for all of his sins. Unlike Steve, he'd earned every bit of this, of peace and contentment and happiness. He'd passed through his crucible and made it out the other side, forged a new life out of the ashes of the old one.

"So have you." Bucky’s face softened, and his voice along with it. "You don't have to make any more sacrifices. Not for me or anyone else."

He'd make a thousand – a million – more for Bucky, and they both knew it. "Buck..."

"Let me ask you something. Before you were Captain America and leader of the Avengers and saving the world on a daily basis – before the serum and all the expectations that came along with it, what were you?”

"I, what?” Steve asked.

"What were you? I’m serious.”

"I dunno, sick a lot and pissed off at the world a lot and –”

"No.” Bucky shook his head, and flattened his hand over Steve’s chest. "You were a good man. Steven Grant Rogers was – _is_ – one of the best men the world’s ever known. Don’t forget that, okay?”

_I'm sorry, Doc. I'm so fucking sorry._

"I'm not," he whispered, shame coursing through him. All he’d ever wanted was to try to live up to whatever it was Bucky saw in him, and he’d failed at every turn. "I tried, Buck, you gotta know that, I tried so hard for so long, but then I found you again... Found out what they did to you, what they'd done to SHIELD and to Peggy and I –" 

He stumbled forward, and Bucky met him halfway, the arms wrapped around him strong and a comfort. Offering shelter the way they always had. 

"I’ve got you, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, brushing a light kiss to his hair, "I’ve got you.”

"I almost shot a little girl in Moscow.” The words were torn out of him in a choked gasp. "She...she was in the room when I came in, looked right at me. Saw my face.” Her wide brown eyes still haunted his dreams. He’d come so fucking close to killing her. 

"A witness.” There was no judgement in Bucky’s voice. Instead, he just sounded tired. "I took out plenty of witnesses. Entire families. All collateral damage was acceptable as long as the mission was completed on schedule. Most of the time, I never even knew their names or anything about them.”

What a pair they both made. Men become monsters trying to relearn how to be human. It was a wonder neither of them had eaten a bullet by now. _Shared life experiences_ , he thought. It'd be funny if it wasn't so horrible. 

The next confession was only slightly easier. "I almost killed a bus full of kids chasing after an agent. A few of ‘em got hurt.” None of them seriously, thank Christ, but still. _Still_.

"Is that…?”

"Last mission I was on before Córdoba, yeah,” Steve confirmed.

Bucky pressed another kiss to his hair. "God, no wonder you were so fucked up when we talked.”

"I've killed so many people," Steve quietly said. "So many."

"I know," Bucky whispered back, running his hands up Steve's spine. Soothing, always so soothing. "And that's something you have to live with. I'm sorry."

"I'm _not_ , though," he said, sharing his most painful, shameful secret with the one person he knew would listen. Even if he lost Bucky as a result, at least it would be with total honesty between them. "I'd torture and kill every one of them all over again if I thought it would make a difference. If I thought it would bring you back, bring Peggy back, if we could _go_ back –"

_If I could save you, save myself, if only, if fucking only –_

"You gotta let it go, Steve," Bucky said, gentle, firm. "Because you're _not_ the same and Peggy's _not_ coming back, and neither is the Bucky Barnes you used to know."

Steve nodded, but didn't lift his head from Bucky's chest. "I know you're not. I know _I'm_ not."

"Good." Metal fingers lifted his chin in a delicate grip. Bucky's eyes were so blue, like the sky after a storm. Wide and beautiful and so full of compassion. "You and me, we're something far more dangerous now."

"We are?" Steve asked, feeling stupid and clumsy and God, he hurt so much. He just wanted to sleep for a year or maybe another decade. Maybe wake up in a world that made more sense. 

The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the look Bucky was giving him. Part empathy, part drill sergeant – the look Bucky always used to give him when he wanted Steve to really pay attention.

"Yeah. We're survivors. And that means something." Bucky smiled, this one softer. His old smile. _Everything'll be jake, Stevie, you'll see. Trust me._ "Okay?"

"Not really. I don't...what do you mean?" Maybe, if he wasn't so strung out, it would make more sense. "We were survivors already." They'd survived so much...maybe too much. Maybe this was finally nature's way of balancing the scales.

"We were. But now it means something different." Bucky cupped Steve’s cheek, thumb rubbing against the bristles of his beard. "The world didn't break us. Either of us."

Steve wasn't so sure about that – but he nodded anyway. "Okay," he said, and summoned an answering smile. "Whatever you say."

"Yeah, I know, listen to me rambling on like I've got any clue how to help people..." Bucky laughed at himself and started to lift his hand away.

Steve placed his own over it to hold Bucky in place. Bucky's skin was warm and dry, a constant. Grounding him, as always. "You're helping," he said. "Just being here, with you... It's helping. Having you back saved me, for whatever it's worth." 

Whatever part of him that still believed in justice and fairness only existed because of the man standing in front of him.

Bucky gave him a small, pleased look. "It's worth a lot," he said, "And maybe all I'm saying is, I can help you try to get square with your body count. I got a little bit of experience in that area, at least."

"I don't want you to have to relive any of...you don't need to. Especially not on my account." Bucky'd come way too far for Steve to want to fuck with it for his own sake. 

Bucky just smiled at him again – that same almost shy, charming smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and deepened the grooves around his mouth. "I don't mind. And you're worth it, too."

He wasn't – God knew he really and truly wasn't – but he appreciated Bucky's faith in him all the same. "Okay," he said, and tried to match that smile with one that he hoped looked real.

"I mean it. You deserve…” Bucky let out a soft laugh. "I dunno, a harem or an army of acolytes or – if I could declare a National Worship Steve Rogers Day, I would."

Steve tried for a smile, but it felt brittle, far too thin. "I’m pretty sure there’s already a Captain America holiday.”

"Fuck him. I’m talking about _you_ , Stevie,” Bucky said.

Steve appreciated that Bucky was trying, he really did. "And what would that look like?"

"I dunno, what do you _want_ it to look like?"

"Right now, I'm just imagining a line of people on their knees waiting to suck my dick, and trying not to laugh."

"I'd be first in line," Bucky said, far too serious for the craziness of the conversation.

" _Buck_." His voice broke. His hand clamped down hard over Bucky's. "Don't do this. I –"

"I love you." Bucky said it like it was the simplest thing on the planet. Like it still meant the same pure thing it used to mean when they were kids.

"But we don't – we haven’t –" Every word felt like it was being forced out of him. 

"I know we haven’t," Bucky affirmed. "But you'll always be my best friend and I will always love you, and if it takes me going to my knees right now to prove to you that you're worthy of whatever love and happiness the world has to offer, then I'll do it." He offered a small, self–deprecating smile. "I'm not saying it'd be the best blowjob you ever had, considering I have no idea how to give one, but I would do it in a heartbeat."

Steve couldn't speak. Words – so many of them – crowded in his head, sat thick on his tongue, but he couldn't force any sound out of his throat. He would never, in a million years, deserve any of Bucky's faith.

He swallowed to try again, and what little breath he had in his lungs sputtered out when Bucky just pressed a light kiss to his lips, then slid to the ground between Steve’s legs. Deft hands tugged at his jeans and he stood there, allowed Bucky to pull them, and his briefs, down to his ankles. His dick was soft, but he could feel the first faint stirrings of want as cool air hit his skin.

When Bucky glanced up at him, his eyes were so impossibly blue.

"You don't –" Mercifully his tongue finally loosened. He placed his hands on Bucky's shoulders. "Buck, you _don't_ have to do this –" 

Bucky just gave him a soft, familiar smile – _I know; this is my choice_ – and leaned in. Kept his eyes on Steve’s the entire time as he parted his lips and slid down. And Steve’s dick, unconcerned with the fact that he didn’t _deserve_ any of this, that he hadn’t earned Bucky’s touch, started to fill. Bucky stretched his lips to accommodate the new girth, and his mouth was so wet, so tight, and he shouldn't be – this _wasn't_. But then Bucky started to bob his head, reverent and so slow, taking his time, and everything else fell away.

It wasn't sexual. This wasn't anything like the admittedly few times in the past that a woman had done this for him. Despite the slick heat and the small noises Bucky made with every slide and the tight suction of his lips, there was nothing _sexual_ about it. This was so much deeper, so much more intimate, maybe the most intimate act Steve had ever experienced in his life.

Bucky kept his eyes on Steve’s, and the hand that was on his hip found his own, squeezed. Gave him tacit permission to do whatever he wanted. He wanted to weep in relief. Bucky – his best friend, his anchor, and the only safe harbor he would ever need – was offering mercy and peace and it was...this was... 

_I absolve you,_ , Bucky seemed to tell him with every slide. _You're forgiven, you're still a good man, let me prove it to you._

He could let go. Bucky would catch him. Bucky would _always_ be there to catch him, just like he always had.

He reached out with trembling fingers, cupped Bucky's unshaven cheek. Bucky hummed his approval, and the sound reverberated down his cock and settled somewhere at the base of his spine. He felt bare, stripped all the way to the marrow of his bones, vulnerable in a way he couldn't even remember feeling, even back when he'd been small. And Bucky was _still_ looking at him, sliding his lips up and down so slow, taking him deep, taking him _in_ , and it was far too much.

"Buck," he managed, and Bucky squeezed his fingers again, like he understood what Steve meant, and kept moving. _It's alright_ , he seemed to be saying. _Just let go. You're safe with me._

" _Bucky_ ," he said again, a plaintive cry, and with a wounded noise, he came. Bucky sputtered a little as he swallowed, and coaxed him through the shuddering aftermath until there was nothing left of him except a hollowed out shell.

The sob caught him completely by surprise, but it was like a dam bursting inside of him, a swift current taking him to shore. Bucky was back on his feet the next second, and strong, safe arms pulled him close, held him tight. "It's okay, buddy," Bucky crooned, kissing his hair, his ear, smoothing those hands all along his back. Gentle, warm, safe. _So_ fucking safe. "It's okay, I've got you. I've always got you."

The knot in Steve’s chest loosened, but he clung to Bucky as he gave in to the tears, cathartic and raw. He had no idea how much time passed, but Bucky's shirt was soaked when he lifted his head. His head felt stuffed, and every nerve in his body felt exposed. 

Bucky's eyes were red–rimmed. Steve could see the tear tracks on his cheeks, and he pulled Bucky back to him, pressed their lips together in a kiss. Tasted the faintest remnants of himself mingling with Bucky's taste, another link in the chain binding them together.

"I love you." Simply saying the words felt like another catharsis. He dropped his head back to Bucky's shoulder, matched his breathing to Bucky's. _I love you_ , inhale, _I love you_ , exhale. As easy and instinctive as it got.

"I love you, too," Bucky told him. "No matter what. And whatever you need from me – whatever it is, whenever it is – it's yours. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours. Even if all you need is to come back here every once in awhile for a safe place to rest, I’m here. I’ll always be here."

"God, Buck, you're just –" He shook his head, swiped at the tears still on his face. Oddly enough, even though he was partially naked and exposed and curled in Bucky's arms like a wayward puppy, this was the safest he'd felt in years. Decades. "You can't offer to...you know, do _whatever_...every time I have a bad mission."

"Says who?" Bucky asked. "I mean, if it's about how bad the blowjob was, I could probably get better with practice. I mean, if you were up for being a guinea pig..."

The laughter bubbled out, watery, but genuine. "I may not have all _that_ much experience, but I definitely know that there's no such thing as a bad blowjob. Which, by the way, that wasn't, and you know it." The furthest thing from it, in fact.

Gentle lips brushed against his forehead, then down over each eyelid. "See, then we're all set. Whenever you want it or need it or... _whatever_ you want, Steve. The word can't doesn't apply. Not to you. Not to us. Not now, not ever."

"Same goes for you, you know," Steve replied. "I would do anything for you. _Anything_ you asked. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Bucky said, hollow. 

"I mean it. I could return the favor right now if it'll convince you –"

"I don’t need you to return the favor. I need you to _stay_.” Bucky grabbed Steve's hands in his own. "Stay here. Stay with me," he said again, with more conviction. "Steve, we...we can be happy. Finally. And I know it's different than all the dreams we had when we were younger, but we can be something different now. We can be together in a different way. We...we can have something new. That's just ours."

Steve felt like his entire being was crumbling right before his very eyes. "How can you want any of that with me after what I've done?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Bucky said, and lifted one hand to run his fingers over Steve's beard. "I've got more black on my soul than you could possibly imagine." 

"But how – after the way I failed you –”

"You didn’t,” Bucky insisted. Still his biggest defender. "I will probably never remember everything about before, but I promise you, even if I did, I’d still feel this way. You’ve _never_ failed me, Steve. Not once.”

How many times could his heart shatter before the serum just stopped working? "Buck, I –”

" _Stay._ Please,” Bucky begged, softer now. "Stay and we'll figure it all out, whatever it is. Together."

Steve brushed a lock of Bucky’s hair back from his face. Tucked it behind his ear, kept the touch reverent and light. Made the kiss soft and sweet, even though it carried a hint of tears and so much love his heart ached with it. "And what if I can’t stay, what then? Are you still gonna want me?"

Bucky let out a sigh. "What was it you told me back in Texas – to end of the line, end of the universe, doesn't matter? I'm _with_ you. No matter what."

"You don’t have to –”

"I know I don't have to. Neither of us _has_ to do anything. That’s the point." Bucky brought both hands up to cup Steve’s cheeks. "It would be a _choice_. And, no matter what, no matter when or whatever the circumstances are, I'm choosing you. I'm always going to choose you. And if it takes the rest of my life to prove that to you, then it's the best use of my time I can think of."

When their lips touched again, when Steve breathed Bucky in – home, family, love, _peace_ – everything felt different. New. Like both of them were being reborn.

He angled his head, parted his lips, and deepened the kiss degree by degree. Bucky let out a shaky breath, and he slid a hand to Steve’s neck to hold him in place. At the first touch of Bucky's tongue against his own, they both groaned, then pressed even closer together. And the first stirrings of desire, actual honest to God _need_ , swept through him, different and new and the biggest endorphin rush. 

He _wanted_ , in ways he could never remember, and that, too, was perfect. 

When they parted, Bucky’s eyes were slightly glazed over, and his lips were full and bruised. A high flush was spreading from his forehead to his neck to disappear down the collar of his shirt, and Steve wanted to see just how far down it went. _Beautiful._ It was his first, last, and only thought. 

Bucky was beautiful. This – whatever it was – between them, was beautiful.

Bucky cupped Steve’s cheek in his hand, smiled when Steve nuzzled into it. Another puzzle piece sliding into place. "The only thing I'm sure of in this world is we've _earned_ this," Bucky said, his voice as shaky as his hands. "We've earned each other."

Whoever he and Bucky had been before...they'd been different men back then. Different men who wanted different things out of life – men who were brothers, or as close to it as they could get. But those men had died a long time ago. Maybe even before Azzano, or even Project Rebirth. 

And who they were now, these shattered and lost souls trying valiantly to pick up and salvage whatever pieces they could? Well, they deserved happiness, too. Didn’t they? They'd earned this, through blood and sweat and tears and far too much tragedy.

There was a _reason_ they'd both endured so much – more than any two people on the planet had a right to endure – and had survived. 

"The minute I stepped foot here, I never wanted to leave. I thought I could be happy, and it scared the shit out of me," Steve softly confided.

"And now?" Bucky asked, his eyes wide and shining brighter than any sun, than any star. 

"I just want..." Steve paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and pressed another light kiss to Bucky's palm. He _could_ do this. He was strong enough now. "I just...I _want_ to stop. If you’re really sure you want me," he added, giving Bucky one last chance to change his mind.

Bucky must’ve sensed his thoughts, because he just shook his head fondly. "I'm sure, Stevie. I've never been more sure of anything."

"Well then, you’ve got me. However long you want me."

"Good." 

Then Steve pulled Bucky close and kissed him again, all teeth and tongue and pure, desperate need. Bucky arched up into it, fisted Steve's shirt, and rubbed against him, the hard outline of his erection pressing against Steve’s body.

"You sure you don't want any help there...?" Steve asked, reaching between them to unfasten the buttons of Bucky’s jeans and give his cock an experimental squeeze.

"Steve..."

"My turn now," he said, and started stroking up nice and slow. "Let me take care of you, alright?"

Bucky shook his head, his chest shuddering with every exhale. "You...I...each other,” he murmured, and wormed his hand between them to wrap tight fingers around Steve’s cock. "We’ll take care of each other.”

Each other. They'd both been brave for other people for far too long. Maybe it _was_ time they were brave just for themselves for a change.

"It feels selfish," Steve said, but he didn't move away. He was never moving away again. There was a constancy and a tranquility to his thoughts now, a slow, but steady, uphill climb out from under the guilt and regret that had pinned him down for far too long. 

Bucky just laughed, and nosed his way in for another kiss. "Feels good, though, doesn't it? Taking something just for you," he asked, and started moving again, sliding up and down, the touch heated and perfect.

Steve smiled against Bucky’s lips, and whispered, a secret, just for them: "You know what? It really fucking does."

When their lips met again, slow and teasing – both of them taking their time, breaths and sighs and tears mingling together – the kiss tasted like a beginning. Like a foundation they could build on, brick by brick, until they had something solid between them. Something real and substantial and just for them, something _theirs_. The ghosts they used to be fracturing into tiny pieces and being put back together into something stronger with every kiss.

In that moment, in the space between breaths, between one kiss and the next, one murmured promise and the next, James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers finally found their way home.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to EVERYONE who read along and commented or left kudos - you guys are all rock stars. Thank you so much for going on this journey with me. <3
> 
> Eternal love and thanks to The Barbershop Quintet, as well as Melle and G., for all of their help and encouragement, and _especially_ to [Stephrc79](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com), who has been there with me every step of the way and was the best cheerleader and beta ever. Any remaining mistakes are on me.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com). :)


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